


Those Halcyon Days

by oxymoronic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Backstory, Chaptered, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Medium Length, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1881, and things have barely begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at my LJ [here](http://oxymoronic.livejournal.com/93030.html).
> 
> Intended for the 2009/2010 Big Bang but it got away from me. Huge thanks to [phenylic](http://phenylic.livejournal.com/) for beta. 
> 
> Contains: a metric fuckton of OCs; Coward/OC occurs a couple of times, but only explicitly once, mostly inexplicit; Assumes Nicholas as Coward's first name; canon character death toward the end.

_February 1881_

 

A fog was curling its way around the capital, sitting low and heavy across chimney-pots, writhing illicitly around streetlamps and the tips of policemen’s hats. In immutable, true British spirit, the night, for the rich, was like any other, and the ceaseless cabaret of fine society chose to exhibit its nightly debacle at the Coward residence, much to the vexation of their eldest, who’d somewhat hoped for a quiet night in.

Tonight’s entertainment came at the leisure of Nicholas’ parents, and as of such the guests mainly consisted of ageing friends and family Nicholas hadn’t seen for years; not seeking any joyous reunions, he skulked malevolently around the bookshelves, glass in hand. He kept a keen eye on his sister, immersed in her entourage; she had taken it upon herself to make a gentleman of him, and took every such party as a perfect opportunity to do so. Speckled through the elderly crowd was the occasional splash of vim and vigour; male for conversation, female for flirtation, all within two years of his age and some even surreptitiously glancing his way in invitation. Nicholas sighed and rubbed his eyes; Emily had, once again, outdone herself. Even now, across the room, she spoke quickly to her cluster of girls, scolding one or two for their inappropriate dress and praising another for a well-selected accoutrement. He’d been told on frequent occasion that, in the right circles, his sister was scaling the dizzying heights of celebrity, but he merely found it all rather trite.

At length, she selected her protégé for the evening – young, pretty, in an unfortunately European sort of way – and Nicholas turned away on a curse and quickly drained his glass. Emily had him pinned; escape from the room was impossible, what with her motley crew between him and the door, and the sole other distractions came in the form of decrepit relatives who would spend far too long talking about the war and not listen to a word he said, due to inability or a particular form of rudeness only acquired and forgiven with senility. It was possible, despite the hour, to make an escape across the garden –

And one presented itself, in the tall form of a man lurking by the French windows. Nicholas gave him the once-over as he placed his glass on the side-table. Young enough to be interesting, but too old to be one of Emily’s honey-traps in very deep disguise. He was probably the only person who Nicholas hadn’t, at some point, been introduced to, and despite it being horribly improper to simply present himself to a stranger, Emily had the girl on her arm ( _oh Lord_ , Nicholas thought, _I’m sure she’s a Frances, or even a Matilda_ ) and any option was preferable to that. With a nod to Lord Glastonbury, who had begun to totter in his direction, he stole across the room and came to a halt at his side.

“Hello,” he began, and the man gave a small start of surprise. “I hope you’ll forgive the importunity, but that’s my sister in the shocking blue dress, and I believe she has dishonourable intentions for me and that poor girl hanging off her arm.” Lord Glastonbury had managed to intercept Emily halfway across the room; she had grown curiously quiet, and was watching him rather sharply. “Besides,” Nicholas continued, “you look about as ready to shoot yourself in the foot as I am.”

The man arced an eyebrow, looking amused, and rummaged in his pocket, withdrawing a silver case. “Cigarette?” _Very Laconic, then_ , Nicholas thought, somewhat down-heartedly. Laconic men never made for great conversation, by definition.

“Not a vice of mine, I’m afraid,” he replied, and caught the man’s pointed glance through the garden door. “But,” he smiled, “I feel exceptions can often be made.”

The fog had settled low by the time they stepped outside, and the door snapping shut behind them separated them from the muggy, smoky warmth of the parlour behind. Beside him, his mystery man lit up a cigarette with a rasping match. “Unseasonal, this late in the year,” Nicholas commented, gesturing at the fog, and the man nodded. “Nicholas Coward,” he offered, holding out a hand.

“Henry Blackwood.” He was more than a little taken aback to have such a celebrity at his parents’ commonplace affair, and Blackwood, as if sensing his surprise, smiled. “I am allowed to leave the house, you know.” He offered Nicholas a cigarette, which he politely declined. “Besides, I owe someone a favour.” Nicholas knew this would be Emily; there was no way his father would ever be able to twist such an influential arm. “I have to admit, I find these things more than a little boring.”

Nicholas found himself easily returning the smile. “We’re certainly agreed in that respect. You must come more often; give me someone to talk to.”

Blackwood’s eyes tracked back through the French window, shifting irritably in the cold. “I expect we’ll have tongues wagging, what with your scandalously improper behaviour.”

Nicholas grinned. “I’d hate to drag down your good reputation with my association.”

“To be honest, I’d rather you did, just to avoid becoming quite so dull as half the people in that room.” He finished the cigarette, and dropped it into a miniature puddle skulking around his ankle. They stood for some time in silence, and Nicholas felt all frustration and irritability slide out of him, into the cool night air.

It took him a while to notice Blackwood looking at him rather pointedly; Nicholas, feeling slightly sheepish, gestured back into the parlour, where Emily had busied herself by talking to Lady Marchmain, making it no longer a warzone too terrifying to enter. “Shall we?”

Blackwood held open the door as they went. They spent little further time in conversation; Blackwood was inexorably popular, but Nicholas felt utterly content to hang to one side, and not simply as a deterrent for his sister. There was something about the man; something calming, something grounding, something which seized your attention and confined it. He would, one day, make a good soldier, or an excellent politician; there was a steady quality in his words that could arrest a man’s loyalty in a heartbeat.

 

 

The following morning, Nicholas was dismayed to realise that his only tenuous link to his new acquaintance came from his sister, and she had thrown a fit of importunity at his rudeness the night before and was pretending that Henry Blackwood didn’t so much as exist. He didn’t know enough about Blackwood to write to him, nor was he in the social circles of London enough to know which gentlemen’s clubs to stumble into – though, he supposed, from what he gathered the evening before, Blackwood didn’t spend much time in such places. He knew the Blackwood estate controlled a little bit of almost everything – it was, after all, what they were famed for – but it seemed equally unlikely that their son would be seen stumbling around Nine Elms inspecting pig corpses. Nicholas liked his company, and it was especially rare to find someone who actually cared enough about _anything_ other than his sister’s vapid obsessions and his father’s dreary politics to hold a decent conversation with him.

At Emily’s gentle provocation, he spent fewer evenings brooding in his bedroom and writing pathetic poetry and more socialising with friends of both his sister and his parents. He even ended up with a scattering of offers of employment, a few of which were in the government and even fewer were tempting, though each met with both Emily’s and his father’s disapproval. “Besides,” his father reminded him, trapped in a carriage with his two children, returning from Lady Bramstone’s, “it’s not your job to finance our household until I’m dead and gone. Spend time on your studies and entertain your sister.” His sister needed little entertaining, but it was rare for his father to impart advice that was actually of any use.

Despite the alarming increase in Nicholas’ social life, it was a month or so before he went to an event which Blackwood also happened to attend. Lord Samson was celebrating a birthday – the actual age was concealed, though Emily scandalously speculated it was probably closer to sixty than fifty, as the Samsons would like the world to believe – and, it seemed, the whole of London had to be invited, and not to attend would mean suicide in the eyes of London’s upper class. Nicholas nearly rejoiced to spy Blackwood across the room, but he was talking soberly to some grey, sombre men, and he thought it probably improper to charge across the room on the virtue of a single meeting. He was snuck up on from behind halfway through the evening, nearly causing a horrible incident with red wine and Lady Salinger’s dress, much to Blackwood’s amusement. “I know you’re not one for impropriety, but there’s no need to ignore me _all_ evening, you know,” he murmured, biting back a laugh, and Nicholas apologised profusely and steered away from the little cluster of people around Lady Salinger.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. We haven’t spoken in at least a month.”

“You could have written.”

“So could you – besides, I didn’t know where you lived.”

“A man of little resource, then; half of London knows where I live. A letter is far less scandalous than an impromptu introduction at a party.”

They hovered around the back of the room, nearly at the window, and Nicholas drank slowly from what remained in his glass. Presently, one of the sons of Samson – John, Nicholas seemed to recall, though it could just as easily be James or Jacob – dramatically entered the room and announced the dinner to be served. The Samson household was famed for its spread (in fact, it was the only reason persuasive enough to make Nicholas attend that evening) and even amongst the stoic, reserved upper class of London there was somewhat of a rush to the table. Nicholas sat to the right of Blackwood, and spent the meal chatting amiably about anything interesting which occurred to him and fervently ignoring his sister’s foul looks along the table. She appeared to have unfortunately been seated next to Miss Price, who, after being married three times at the age of fifty-three, was under the impression she had accumulated all the wisdom the world had to offer and therefore was obliged to impart it on any fool who would try not to listen. Nicholas occasionally caught the expression on Emily’s face and attempted not to grin.

Blackwood, not expecting Nicholas’ attendance, had arranged for a hansom to arrive around ten, his own family’s coach preoccupied with shuttling his father from ‘important business in the city’. The evening rolled around amiably, the food taking up the majority of the time, with Nicholas taking full advantage of his educated and above all fascinating companion, and the grand clock in the hall announced it to be quarter to ten rather sooner than he would have wished. There was, of course, the option of staying inside whilst waiting for it to arrive, but the Samson household was flooded with guests becoming steadily more and more drunk as the rooms fogged up with more and more smoke, and for the sake of fresh air they lounged on the steps outside instead.

“Well, I have to say, you made what promised to be a thoroughly dull evening somewhat more interesting,” Nicholas said mildly, peering down the street, and Blackwood laughed.

“Fine praise indeed, though I feel that your sister probably would have caused some entertaining scandal to keep you occupied.” The hansom approached, and Nicholas opened the door for him as he climbed inside. “I think I’ll call on you in the week, provided you’ve got nothing better to do – I know I don’t, and besides, it’d probably be better than hanging around another month for the next party.” With a tiny smile, Blackwood thumped the side of the carriage, and it clattered away.

Nicholas skipped back up the steps to the Samsons’ front door, located his sister in the drawing room and elected to leave as soon as possible, easily recognising the rash impulsiveness in the set of her shoulders, which he caught hold of calmly to steer her from the room. “Come on, dear, even you should know better than to upset the Home Secretary’s wife.”

“He doesn’t frighten me,” she protested, attempting to prise her wrist from his fingers. “Besides, I hadn’t had the chance to say anything really dreadful.”

He tugged her into the hallway, scanning around for their father. “Don’t you think of anyone but yourself? Father’s currently in negotiations with his part of the government, and you attempt to insult his wife.”

“Men and their politics,” she sighed, leaning on him lazily. “I shall have to become a suffragist before my opinions are heard.”

Lord Samson sent her a rather alarmed look, which Nicholas had to dissuade with an uneasy smile. “Don’t joke about such things,” he hissed. He had the butler call them a hansom, left a message for their father and bundled his sister inside before she could do any more damage.

She grinned at him wickedly as they rocked their way past Charing Cross. “You spent all the evening talking to Henry again,” she declared, nudging his shin with her foot.

Nicholas scowled. “For want of better conversation, yes. How was Miss Price?”

She flopped back in mock theatrics. “Oh, God, Nick, if I ever get to be like that, promise me you’ll have me shot.”

“Do I have to wait?” he muttered, and she kicked him viciously.

 

 

Blackwood waited until Thursday before calling on the Coward household. Nicholas was brooding in his room, wondering whether it was rather presumptuous to worry why he hadn’t heard from him yet, when Carlyle knocked on the door to announce his arrival. He hurried down the landing, realising with increasing dread that Emily had intercepted him before Carlyle had managed to smuggle him into the parlour, and was now chatting to him at the foot of the stairs – and, good Lord, Blackwood was laughing. He sent her a filthy look as he descended the last flight, reserving his smile for Blackwood.

“Henry was just telling me how he wants to tour Europe during the summer, Nick,” she said, slowly, grinning at him from over Blackwood’s shoulder. “Though I think it can get horribly hot on the continent during August, don’t you agree?”

Nicholas ignored her. “I hope she’s not been too offensive.”

Blackwood smiled. “On the contrary, she’s been quite informative.”

Emily sent him a sly look, and placed a hand on Blackwood’s shoulder. “I must apologise, Henry, I’ve got a meeting with my dressmaker I need to rush off to. I can’t quite seem to find the right thing to wear for the Opera this evening – it’s the première of _Patience_ at the Comique, you know, quite impossible to get tickets, but I’ve managed to make friends with someone courting the understudy of Grosvenor. All down to who you know, as ever. Anyway, I’d best leave you to your politics.” She gave Blackwood a flattering smile and swept regally from the room.

Once sure she was well out of earshot, Nicholas snorted. “She’s rather taken with you; I have never seen her act so obnoxiously. I would apologise for that, but I feel you handled it all quite admirably.”

Blackwood smiled easily. “Interesting women are so hard to come across, here, unless they’ve deserted to America at some point and lost all of their propriety. She’s quite refreshing to talk to.”

They crossed into the drawing-room, and then out to the garden; the time of the year still left it rather cool, but at least it wasn’t smothered in fog as it had been before. “I can never talk to her without suspecting she’s plotting something.”

“I find that happens with women in general,” Blackwood said, mildly. “You should meet my mother.” Nicholas squatted by the fountain, extracted a pebble, and threw it to rebound off the bronze sculpture in the centre before falling back into the water. “That looks expensive. Laocoon and his serpents?”

Nicholas snorted. “A replica, and a pretty shoddy one at that. I think it’s hideous, but my mother loved it, so of course it has to stay.” He slouched back against an elaborately trimmed shrub; Lord Coward had a fondness of horticulture bested only by Xerxes himself.

“Your mother, she – ?”

“Eloped.” Nicholas flicked the leaf to the ground. “With Father’s brother, actually – he’d moved to America, and Father hates the lot of them now. He discovered the affair around two months after Emily was born and they were divorced with her in New Jersey by the end of the year. Generally people assume she’s dead, and by Father’s instruction we don’t tell them otherwise.”

“The women of your family have a tendency to be impetuous,” Blackwood said absently, which Nicholas felt was somewhat of an understatement. “I did have a conversation with a friend of my father’s about the hereditary nature of personality once – he theorised that something in the blood flow in the mother’s brain during the pregnancy affected the characteristics of the offspring.”

“He can’t have had much proof.” Nicholas glanced up from the water. “You’re a determinist?”

“Nothing quite so absolute; I have no inclination towards the concepts of fate or destiny. The notion that some human traits might have a biological basis... interests me.”

“I had no idea you were such a pragmatist. I might have to stop speaking to you.”

Blackwood wandered up to the fountain, observing the skitters in the surface. “You disapprove of science?”

“It does nothing but tirelessly prove things wrong and strip the magic and mystery from the mundane, leaving it quite pointless and boring.” Nicholas straightened, and climbed the steps back towards the house. “No; in my experience, some things are best left well alone.”

Blackwood elected not to remain for dinner, though this was rather at Nicholas’ insistence than his own choice; it was to be one of the rare occasions Lord Coward returned from work to dine with his children, and with Emily at the Opera the three of them sat together at dinner would be uncomfortable at best.

“If he’s not had this treaty signed he’ll be as miserable as sin, and if he has he’ll be insufferable; not the most auspicious of introductions, really.” He watched Blackwood fetch up his hat and scarf, and passed down his coat from a peg by the door. “Do you want my man to call for someone?”

“No, I’ll walk; I need to call off somewhere on the way anyhow.” He moved down the first two steps from the door and paused, leaning against the rail to look back inside. “Do you like the theatre?”

Nicholas smirked. “I’m partial to a little, in the right circumstances. Why?”

“A friend of mine’s headlining in _Odette_ on Saturday, and I’ve got two tickets and no one to go with, if you don’t mind. I could always take your sister instead.”

Nicholas laughed. “Don’t joke; I’ll tell her you said so and there’ll be Hell to pay.” He leant against the door frame. “Unless I get a better offer, consider my evening yours.” With a smile, Blackwood made off down the street.

His father, it turned out, had managed to secure a profitable treaty with the Marquis, and came home insufferably jovial. He stayed at the dinner table long enough to ascertain that Emily wouldn’t be joining them and scold Nicholas for letting her out unaccompanied before retiring to his study with the majority of the food, leaving Nicholas to stare at his plate sullenly and regret urging Blackwood home.

 

 

Emily spent Friday and the majority of Saturday skulking around the house, forbidden by their father to go ‘gallivanting’ across London until a time he deemed appropriate. She contented herself by making her brother’s life a misery, especially when she learnt that he was allowed out on Saturday evening when she was instructed to stay indoors without any entertainment.

“This is favouritism,” she grumbled, slouched across his bed and watching him dress. “Blatant favouritism. If I wrote to Josephine Butler she’d be deeply scandalised.”

“Emily, if you wrote to Josephine Butler she’d remind you how damn lucky you are you don’t work as a common whore on the docks.” He turned away from the looking-glass. “I would point out that not only did I tell Father I was going out, I did so in the right tone and a full two days before the evening itself.”

“You plan things too meticulously, Nick,” she sighed, shaking her head as if all the great misery in the world originated from his fastidiousness. “Your life lacks impulsiveness. Spontaneity.”

“And yet, which of us is hanging indoors like an old bat on Saturday evening?”

She scowled at him fiercely and watched him inspect himself in the looking-glass again. “You’re fretting over your appearance again; it’s quite adorable.” Carlyle knocked quietly on the door to inform him that Blackwood’s coach had pulled up outside, and Emily glared at him. “ _Do_ have a nice evening.”

Nicholas grabbed his tailcoat from the closet. “If you’re still up when I return, I’ll tell you _all_ about it.”

Blackwood had filched the use of the family coach that evening; it was huge in comparison to the others clogging the streets, and rather lushly done up, although internally rather than externally. Lord Blackwood liked to ride comfortably, but in style. Nicholas mockingly touched his hat to his sister, leaning out of the bedroom window for a better view, and clambered inside.

The play in itself was, thankfully, not as awful as Nicholas had anticipated it would be. Blackwood’s friend made a decent stab at Clermont, even if his interpretation was a tad soppy, and the rest of it was rather well put together; the director clearly knew his stuff. He told Blackwood as much between the hubbub of the curtain closing and the doors opening, and he looked rather amused at his interpretation, though he politely asked him not to mention to his friend that his Clermont had been “a tad soppy”.

“He’s been insufferable about it for weeks,” he murmured as they crossed the foyer. “He thinks he’s got it down to pat – he even wrote to Sardou in Paris for pointless fact-checking and the like. Apparently it helped ‘elaborate the role’.” Blackwood straightened against the counter, and Nicholas glanced across the foyer to watch his friend approach; it was the current fashion to emphasise vitality over maturity, and he played it perfectly, with a natural babyish face accompanied by blonde hair and innocent brown eyes. “Alex Duvall; Nicholas Coward.”

Duvall shook his hand. “It was a surprise to hear about you, Mr Coward. Harry doesn’t tend to make friends, so naturally you came as quite a shock.”

Nicholas smiled uneasily. “I have to say, by my first impression he did seem rather Laconic.”

Duvall looked from Nicholas to Blackwood, full of glee. “Do you hear that, Harry? _Laconic_! I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put so well. I dread to think what your perception of me must be.” He put a hand on Blackwood’s shoulder, and leant in rather close. “Listen, I’ve got to hang around for a bit, do the ingratiated actor role with a couple of producers, but after that what do you say about us heading over to the city, eh? Make a night of it?”

“Perfect,” Blackwood replied, and Duvall, beaming, scurried back across the foyer.

“I think I’d better leave you to it,” Nicholas said quietly. “Better not push my luck with my father.”

Blackwood looked at him, and, after a pause, nodded. “You are allowed to say you don’t like him, you know.” Nicholas, taken aback, made no move to deny it; he suspected Blackwood would tell he was lying. “No matter; we’ll spend it floating around some of the more ill-kept public houses and he’ll head over to Tiger’s Bay to stick a pipe between his lips and a whore between his legs. Hardly the most entertaining of evenings, and far from your tastes. Besides, you mustn’t keep your sister waiting – promise me you’ll invent some scandal to shock her with.”

Nicholas smiled. “I hadn’t planned to, but it’ll give me something to do on the ride home.” They shook hands, shared the briefest of looks, and he moved through the foyer to wait for the cab outside. As he left, he turned up the collar of his coat; there was a storm on the air.

 

 

Following the theatre escapade, it occurred to Lord Coward that his son was in rather close relations with the son of Lord Blackwood. From that moment onwards, Nicholas could do no wrong; gone was the imperative to study, to nanny his sister, replaced by his father’s insistence he should spend the afternoon, evening, weekend with Blackwood. “If I didn’t value so highly as a friend,” Nicholas informed Blackwood, drily, basking in the tentative April sunshine on the Cowards’ lawn, “I’d abandon you entirely out of spite.”

“If I weren’t your only friend,” Blackwood retorted, smiling a little. It was true that whilst only a few years ago Nicholas had enjoyed his own wonderful entourage of companions, they’d long since abandoned life with their parents to go off and do thoroughly exciting things in thoroughly exciting places. Nicholas was evidently destined for something different and, depressingly, more domestic.

Blackwood became their guest of honour, asked to dine with the Cowards every night that could be spared and made to put up with Lord Coward’s sycophantic conversation at every opportunity. Although it provided Nicholas with the rare chance to frequently entertain his closest friend, it disgusted him to watch his father’s constant toadying. “I don’t know how you can stand it,” Nicholas muttered to him, darkly, after one particularly appalling display.

Blackwood shrugged. “It’s only politics. Besides, spending every evening with you makes it almost worthwhile.”

 

 

When Blackwood announced that their family would be spending a month or so in their Chichester estate, Lord Coward looked about as appalled as Nicholas felt. “There’s a good postal service between Sussex and London – there has to be, otherwise Father couldn’t afford to be away from Parliament so long. I promise I’ll write.” They’d chosen to spend the afternoon at the Blackwoods’, rather than the Cowards’, to allow Blackwood the time to pack and to escape from Lord Coward’s despair. Currently, they were perched in Blackwood’s bedroom, watching the Blackwoods’ housekeeper, Mrs Wilcott, somewhat frantically prepare the family for their departure the following day. Blackwood snapped shut a black-strapped leather writing case and touched Nicholas’ shoulder briefly. “A month really isn’t all that long – and besides, I might just have a surprise for you when I get back.”

Nicholas swiftly said his goodbyes once Mrs Wilcott worked herself into an abominable fluster, possibly scarring one of the serving-girls for life in the process, and trudged back home with low spirits. Without their guest of honour, his father was in a foul mood, and Emily, still in disgrace, wasn’t much better without Blackwood to discourage her. With nothing better to do, she caused a tempestuous argument and flounced off to bed once gaining the upper hand; Nicholas was left stranded with their father, who, in a fit of rage, threatened to disown the both of them. This was a largely empty threat; they both reminded him far too much of their mother, who, after all this time, was still deified in the Coward household.

His sister, bored and depressed without Blackwood’s frequent visits to entertain her, flung herself back into any social scene she could find; Nicholas was dragged with her for the first few times, just to satiate their father’s disapproval, but was so bitter and jaded with Blackwood gone he quickly gave up and took to spending far too much time in his bedroom.

A note came after a few weeks, announcing his safe arrival and hoping for his family’s wellbeing, but Nicholas could never quite bring himself to write back.

 

 

Having received no word from Blackwood for the best part of a month, Nicholas was in a terrible mood; fortunately for the rest of the world, he’d decided to vent it entirely in the space of the bedroom to which he isolated himself, drafting broody and contemptuous letters to various members of government or regressing to rereading favourite books from his childhood. One Friday afternoon, Emily flew into his bedroom as he was in the midst of one particularly eloquent piece of work, and virtually dragged him from his writing-desk in excitement. The letter in her hand turned out to be from Thomas Hamilton, one of Nicholas’ childhood friends, who was –

“ – coming to stay with us, Nick!” Emily shrieked, spinning around in circles, the letter abandoned on the carpet.

Nicholas stared at her. “You read my _post_?”

Emily sat down on the bed and threw him a jaded look. “Oh, don’t act like that, it’s not like there’s anything _private_ about it.”

Thomas’ imminent visit – which, Nicholas thought, a little moodily, was announced at rather short notice, and rather impolitely – sent the household into a flurry, with a million highly important things which had to be done before he got there, and everyone, other than Nicholas, forgot all about Blackwood. Thomas, it turned out, had spent the last few years touring the continent and securing a rather important ambassador’s role, which made him a vital ally for Nicholas’ father; he was to be their new guest of honour, or at least for the week or so he was staying with them. He had to admit he was full of nerves at the thought of his friend returning; they’d not seen each other for such a long time, and he’d probably become a far more interesting man than Nicholas in the time they’d been apart. Nicholas hadn’t managed to leave Middlesex in the best part of a year, and the last time Thomas wrote to him it was from Zimbabwe.

Still, on the afternoon of his arrival, his old friend stepped out of the coach and ran, beaming, into the house and jumped on him with an entirely inappropriate and rather affectionate hug. “You could have written to me a bit earlier,” Nicholas muttered begrudgingly, but couldn’t quite help a smile.

 

 

“It seems an odd time to return to London, though,” Nicholas said, sat in the study. The weather was turning to summer; although it was almost evening, the windows were wide open, and the sun was still dragging itself down through the sky. They had spent a companionable few days together, visiting plays of questionable quality, lounging around in fine society and attempting to convey to one another the events of the past few years. Nicholas had forgotten how easy he had found his friendship with Thomas, and regretted them falling out of touch.

“I knew you’d spot my ulterior motives.” Thomas smiled as he turned from the window. “You see, I’ve come rather in want of a wife.”

“Ah.” Nicholas smiled. “That is the only reason anyone ever comes crawling back to _fine society_ ; I should have guessed. I take it you intend to consult my sister on the appropriateness of the young women of London? You’ll find her a master in the subject, and she’ll relish someone to lecture on it.”

“No, Nicholas,” Thomas replied, frowning slightly. “I intend to marry her.”

Nicholas stared at him. “Have you told my father?”

“Not yet.” Thomas spread his hands with an easy smile. “I’m well-suited financially, and I can promise to keep her content, if not excited. Marriage might even calm her down a little.” He paused for a second, teeth worrying his lip. “She does like me, doesn’t she? I remember her taking a fancy to me years ago, and God knows she never stops flirting with me.”

“She likes you,” Nicholas confirmed, though he spoke slowly, and felt thoroughly confused. Besides, Emily flirted with _everyone_ , in a socially acceptable sort of way; it was generally perceived as endearing.

“I’ll do it properly, of course. Court her for a while, buy her expensive things, ask your father’s permission, but I don’t see a reason why we shouldn’t be married.”

“She believes in love, you know.”

Thomas shrugged. “Then I’ll have her fall in love with me; she’s halfway there already. I might even fall in love with her myself.” He watched him closely. “You disapprove.”

“Not so much,” Nicholas replied, quietly. “I always imagined she’d fall passionately in love with a sailor and run off on a scandalous elopement and live happily in Russia with her thirteen children. This is – ”

“Preferable?”

“Different,” he said. “I’ll have to take a while to get my head around it. I shouldn’t worry, though; Father practically worships you, and Emily will be over the moon. There shouldn’t be anything stopping you.”

“But their opinions don’t matter to me, Nick,” he said, softly, and managed to hold his eye.

Nicholas stayed quiet, studying his hands. “You’d keep her happy. She’d be safe.”

“Of course.”

“Well, there’s little _I_ could do to dissuade young love, is there?” He smiled as he settled back in his chair. “You know, out of all the men she took a fancy to when she was younger, I suppose I’d prefer her to marry you the most.”

Thomas laughed. “From you, Nicholas, that’s practically a compliment. We won’t be married for the best part of a year, you know – ” He paused, wetting his lips nervously. “I do want to do things right.”

“Well, you’ve won me over – you always were a stupidly good politician, and your fancy promotion hasn’t made you any less obnoxious. Just promise me you won’t drag her off to some godforsaken land where I’ll never see hide nor hair again?”

“You have my word,” Thomas replied, solemn as a pastor and grinning like an idiot.

 

 

After the last invasion of his privacy, Nicholas had arranged with Carlyle for his post to be brought to his room directly, in an attempt to stop Emily intercepting it; the operation carried through quite successfully, and it at least gave him the chance to read Blackwood’s letter before Emily worked the strategy out, charged into his room and snatched it from his hand.

“It’s from Henry!” She spread herself out on his bed, scanning the pages quickly. “Ugh, how boring, it’s all politics and drivel. Does he mention me?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Nicholas tersely snapped, reaching over to take it; she snaked back from his reach and flipped it over to read the postscript and check for a hidden message.

“Oh, look, he signs it _Harry_ – not _Blackwood_ , or even _Henry_. Has he been doing it long?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he muttered, teeth clenched. “Can I have it back now?”

She ignored him. “Are you going to write back?”

“That is how letter-writing works, Emily.”

Once again, she ignored him, electing instead to fully read the letter, until interrupted by Carlyle knocking quietly on the door to announce that their father wanted to speak to her. Still none the wiser to Thomas’ imminent proposal, she glowered at him as she swept from the room, leaving Nicholas staring at the letter which lay, a little rumpled, curled at the foot of his bed.

 

 

Lord Coward insisted they dine out that night, and Emily mischievously picked Claridge’s, well aware that securing a reservation so late in the day would be impossible. It came as no surprise to Nicholas that Thomas swanned into the dining room a half-hour later with a reservation for all four of them for eight o’clock – “Although,” he added, as Carlyle quietly serviced the pianoforte, “if you’d like to join us, Carlyle, I’m sure I can persuade them to fetch us another chair.” Carlyle politely declined.

Once Emily excused herself to get ready for the evening, Thomas sent him a slightly queasy smile and slumped against the piano. “You have actually _proposed_ to her, am I right?” Nicholas asked. “She does know?”

Thomas nodded absently. “You wouldn’t think so. She’s being almost unnaturally quiet.”

“Maybe it’s a sign of longed-for maturity. It’s been in the works long enough.”

Thomas laughed. “Oh, come on, Nick. You know as well as I do immaturity is half her charm.”

The meal came out of Thomas’ pocket – he rather sickeningly insisted on being the gentleman – and, despite the extortionate nature of the prices, was likeable enough. Lord Coward even managed to look pleased for most of the night, greatly perturbing both of his children, who shot each other nervous looks whenever their father laughed or cheerfully cracked a joke. “I think he’s just glad I didn’t do what Mama did, you know,” Emily muttered to him darkly.

“I think we all expected it of you, to be perfectly honest.”

She gave him an odd look. “I may be impetuous, selfish and ignorant, Nicholas, but I still have my principles,” she replied, and refused to talk to him for the rest of the evening.

 

 

Thomas had the intention of procuring lodgings in St James’, to keep as a base of residence when in London; his job was calming down a little, now, but it still demanded he travelled most of the year. Besides, Emily felt obliged a grand London townhouse to fuss over and heavily customise the drapery of; maintaining the house would give her something to do. Until then, the Cowards were stuck with the both of them.

Nicholas did eventually compose a reply to Blackwood; he told him of Emily’s engagement, narrating the whole affair with far too much grandeur and melodrama in what he hoped came off with an ironic tone. He could imagine his friend stuck in the country, bored stiff with no one to talk to and nothing to do, and liked to think his letter would bring him some form of amusement. The letter he received in turn briefly outlined a scandal between the cook and the kitchen maid, but other than that Chichester life seemed to be inexorably dull; Nicholas shot back ever more complicated and philosophical questions, just to give each of them something to do. When Blackwood wrote back with a ten-page essay on Descartes, Carlyle gave him a very odd look as he handed across the bundle of papers.

As Thomas began collecting his things, Blackwood outlined a date for his return; the 13th June was his brother’s birthday, and he intended to be in London from at least the evening before. ‘ _And_ ,’ he wrote, ‘ _I even have that surprise for you I mentioned._ ’

When hearing that Blackwood would soon be returning, Emily quickly reverted from the sombre, austere wife-to-be to her childish and asinine self, and as for Lord Coward, he looked close to aneurysm from sheer happiness; both his children with highly respected, highly influential companions, both, in his mind, eagerly ready to further their father’s position.

Blackwood ended up returning on the afternoon of the fourth, promising to drop by as soon as his men had properly sorted out his effects; Nicholas ambled around the parlour, running his fingers across trinkets and tabletops until Emily fussed at him for wearing down the varnish. She herself lay sprawled inelegantly across the chaise in the corner; the summer didn’t agree with her, as the pollution from the riverbanks carried further and got into her lungs, and she was miserable and exhausted from far too little sleep. “Do you suppose he’ll have bought me something?” she asked, hopefully, and Nicholas scowled in her direction.

“I – ” Nicholas stopped, started, stopped again, ran the words through his head, selected the least suspicious phrase. “If he’s been addressing me as _Nick_ and I him as _Harry_ for, say, over a month or so, even if merely in communiqué – what do you think the proper decorum is for when we meet?”

“Goodness, Nick, you don’t half get yourself worked up over _decorum_. I suppose you should let him speak first.”

Nicholas caught his lip with his teeth. “But suppose he’s as uncertain as I am?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Well, then, you shall both stare and gawp at each other for a while and it’ll be most entertaining to watch.”

They heard the sound of commotion at the door, and Carlyle knocked to announce Blackwood’s arrival; “oh, hellfire,” Nicholas cursed, turning from the window. Emily, forever his saving grace, asked Carlyle to escort him through with a melodramatic roll of her eyes.

Nicholas turned to her rather violently to argue, but Blackwood entered the room, and he found his voice faltered in his throat. “Nicholas,” he said, easily, before turning to his sister and smiling amiably. “Emily. I hear you’ve managed to get yourself a husband.”

“Honestly, Nick, have you done nothing but gossip for the last month?” She smiled at Blackwood as he kissed her hand. “He’s at the Commons for most of today, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you could meet him before he leaves for Cyprus at the end of next week.”

“At the Commons on a Saturday? He must be a very diligent worker – I approve already. I can’t imagine you as a wife, though, _dearly devoted to his arms_.”

“ _Through passionate duty love springs higher_ ,” she replied, brusquely, smiling just a little. Blackwood let go his sister’s hand and turned to Nicholas, _finally_ , instead.

“Hullo, H–arry,” Nicholas decided, at the last possible moment, and found himself rewarded by the most fleeting of smiles.

“Your letters were a most welcome distraction. You have no idea how completely _boring_ it can get when stuck in a house with no one but an obnoxious father and an insufferable brother to keep you company.”

Nicholas opened his mouth, grinning a little, but the look on Emily’s face made him close it again. “Indeed,” he said, drily, “I can’t imagine.”

“Anyhow, there’s something I think we need to discuss – ” Blackwood looked across at Emily. “ – and I thought it best to do it away from – ”

“Prying eyes,” Nicholas interrupted, and Blackwood smiled, just a little.

“Precisely.”

“The drawing-room should be free. Emily, you’ll forgive us if we leave you to your – ”

“Sewing?” Blackwood suggested, face quite blank. “Needlework?”

They began to hightail it to the adjacent drawing-room at the murderous look on Emily’s face, and Nicholas slid shut the door. He pressed his back to the panelling, bracing himself for the thump his sister was sure to deliver, but it didn’t come – Nicholas rather uneasily suspected she was skulking around behind the door, attempting to listen in. “Well, can I get you a drink?” He paced to the cabinet on the west wall.

“Certainly.” Blackwood took the proffered glass and drained it instantly; Nicholas watched him place it down on the sideboard, and wondered absently if it was a case of Dutch courage.

“You mentioned a surprise,” Nicholas said slowly, and Blackwood nodded, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Quite. I spoke at length with my father, while I was away – ” He broke off for a moment and smiled. “Not the easiest thing in the world to do, but it had to be done, and he was actually suspiciously amiable. In any rate, we spoke of you, and he reminded me we have a cousin with a townhouse in Vienna.” He looked at Nicholas nervously. “What do you say to it? I know it’s not quite Prague, but if you like I’m sure we could spend a day or so there as well.”

Nicholas stared at him, dumbfounded. “Your father wants – _you_ want us to spend the summer in Vienna?”

“Perhaps not the whole summer – July, maybe? Or August? I’m sure Lord Coward – ”

Nicholas paced across the room and halted before him, his hand reaching towards Blackwood’s arm. “Harry, that’s – it’d be – ”

Emily chose the inopportune moment to crash into the room and gaze happily at Blackwood. “Nick, accept the offer this instant! Oh, that’s so _kind_ of you, Henry,” she gushed, looking at him with soppy eyes, but Blackwood kept his own on Nicholas.

“ – perfect,” he finished, eventually, his voice quiet. “Thank you.” He turned to his belligerent sister, who did have the decency to look a little ashamed. “Have you been listening all this time?”

She tossed her head back and looked at him haughtily. “Of course.”

“I do hope Thomas knows what he’s let himself in for,” Nicholas muttered darkly, and watched as Blackwood attempted to hide a smile.

“Nicholas – ” Blackwood took his wrist for an instant and dropped it just as quickly. “Listen, I’d better get back to my father; we’ve got a thousand and one preparations to make before next Monday night. I’ll come by next week to make arrangements?”

“Absolutely. Emily, would you have Carlyle fetch Harry’s coat, please?” She cast them a surreptitious look as she left, and Nicholas glanced quickly at Blackwood to catch his expression. His countenance suggested that he had something more to say – but then Carlyle was entering the room, and he graciously accepted hat and coat. “Wednesday?” Nicholas asked, watching him slip them on.

“Wednesday,” Blackwood confirmed, shook his hand and left with Carlyle seeing him to the door.

 

 

Nicholas broke the news of the suggested holiday to his father at dinner, with Emily watching them eagerly; Lord Coward was not as instantly dismissive as Nicholas had dreaded, but wasn’t as immediately ecstatic as Emily had been. “You’ve not known him for very long,” he said, slowly, as perfectly-steamed vegetables were heaped onto his plate. “Is it proper to go off to the continent with him?”

“He’s become – a very good friend of mine, Father, even in so short a space of time. Nevertheless, we won’t be alone, if that’s what’s concerning you. We’ll be lodging with his cousin and I’m sure his father will insist a man or two accompanies him.”

His father made a long, low noise in the back of his throat. “How is Lord Blackwood?”

Nicholas bit his tongue against a sharp retort. It was so like his father to turn it into yet another chance for toadying, but his desire to go to Austria with Blackwood won out. “Fine, or so I’m told. I’ve not had the pleasure of his acquaintance as of yet.”

“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity, don’t you, Father?” Emily piped up from across the table, sending her brother a small grin.

“Hmmm,” Lord Coward said, and took a drink of his wine. “Well, I suppose I approve of the notion, at least. When are you thinking of finalising your plans?”

“Harry intends to visit next week.”

If Lord Coward was surprised by the use of forename, he didn’t react to it. “Let me know what you intend; I want to spend some of the summer in Devon with your aunt.” He gestured for the table to be cleared, and in the commotion Emily caught Nicholas’ eye and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter contains homophobia.

Blackwood left it til late on Wednesday to call; Nicholas had almost begun to believe that he hadn’t found the time to escape his father. What was more remarkable was that Carlyle failed to announce his arrival; instead, Nicholas had the fright of his life as he stepped into the garden to find his friend stood beside the fountain, his head skywards and the most uncanny smile across his face.

“I didn’t hear you arrive,” Nicholas broached, and came to stand beside him. “Have you been here long?”

The smile on Blackwood’s face widened; Nicholas couldn’t say it was a comforting sight. “I told Carlyle not to bother you. I admit that I came here as much for solitude as for your company. I do like your garden.”

“Is everything alright?” Nicholas almost blurted the question in his haste to say it; but it did little to dissipate the strange smile on his friend’s face.

“A strange question. Yes; and at the same time, resoundingly no.” The smile left him. “Father’s changed his inheritance. John’s to be head of the family, not I.”

Nicholas stared at him. “Do you know why?”

“No.” He turned away for a moment; when he faced Nicholas again, the smile was back in place. “Don’t look like that; I’m happy, Nick, really, I am. I’m – free.”

“Free?”

“Of politics, of sycophantism, of wasting my life away in some damned, musty room, surrounded by incompetent flatfoots with their heads full of love of themselves and their country. I can do – _anything_ , Nick!”

“Anything,” Nicholas echoed, his voice bland. The idea petrified him. He was his father’s son, and always had been; Nicholas was born a man to serve, not a man for _freedom_.

“ _Anything_. We could sail for Vienna tomorrow morning if we wanted – ”

“Not before the party,” Nicholas found himself saying; “your father would never forgive you.”

Blackwood’s smile faltered, transformed; became warm and simple. His hand took hold of Nicholas’ arm; they were almost intolerably close. That half-heartbeat of superfluous affection exhilarated him beyond his comprehension; Nicholas’ hand moved of its own accord; became a finger’s breadth, a whisper away from his friend’s face, and a sudden, sickening desire to grab and touch seized him. But he stayed his hand; Blackwood’s incredible, incessant eyes froze him; and for a moment, Nicholas was _sure_ he intended –

– and Blackwood stepped away, his face down. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have planned, tonight. I had hoped to.”

“It’s quite alright,” Nicholas mumbled, eyes on the far wall, utterly confused. “You have – a lot on your mind.”

Blackwood snorted. “Quite.” He walked away across the lawn without another word; Nicholas felt almost sick to watch him go. He had never been so gripped with fear in his life, so absolutely certain he had made some huge, horrific mistake but at the same time completely incapable of identifying what. He understood, for the first time, his friend’s inexorable, inescapable independence; but what terrified him more was his own reliance, watching Blackwood walk away without as much as a backwards glance, how swiftly his life would tumble apart if his friend chose to make it so.

Blackwood paused at the top of the steps; looked back, once, over his shoulder; Nicholas knew, with a numbing relief, he was forgiven.

 

 

Emily elected to spend the majority of the following week with her fiancée, leaving Nicholas alone. He wandered the miniature library, selecting charts, papers and big, heavy books of law in preparation for their trip to the continent, ascertaining which documents they’d need for each respective country, how much of each currency and the swiftest method of transportation. His father didn’t protest at the books removed from his private library and strewn across Nicholas’ bed, and, considering how uncharacteristic this was of him, it gave Nicholas hope that he approved of their travelling. Emily stuck her head around the door late Friday evening once she returned from Thomas’, and did nothing more to disturb him than gently kiss the top of his head. He caught hold of her hand on his shoulder, and she smiled at him before leaving the room.

It was well into the small hours before he decided to take to bed, propping a Baedeker against his knee and squinting to read it in the dim light. A noise from the street made him start, and he peered at the open window regretfully, considering languidly whether it was worth leaving his bed to cross the room and close it. The noise failed to cease; it grew, in fact, closer to their house, until a loud bang on the front door made him startle out of bed and drop the book to the floor. He listened to the house being raised from their beds, then to Carlyle opening the door and apparently letting the intruder in to the parlour; moments later, a knock came on his own door, and Nicholas stood from the bed to open it.

“I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Carlyle said, voice rather unnecessarily hushed.

“You didn’t; I was still up reading. What’s the commotion? Is someone hurt?”

“Not exactly, sir. It’s Mr. Blackwood – I’ve let him into the parlour. Should I have a bed made up for him in here, sir?”

Nicholas stared at him in wonder. “Yes, I suppose you should – there’s no chance of him getting home this late. I’ll go see to him.”

Carlyle gestured at the maids loitering in the corridor and pointed to the far side of the room, muttering swift instructions. Nicholas was interrupted halfway down the landing by Emily, hanging nervously on the doorframe. “Who is it, Nick?”

“Harry, apparently,” he murmured back to her. “Go back to bed, I’ll see to him.” She looked ready to argue for a moment, but gave up with a slight shrug, and her door clicked shut. Nicholas descended the stairs a little warily, the hallway floor only dimly lit and treacherous; he battled his way to the parlour and closed the door behind him. Inside, Blackwood was slumped against the writing-desk, fingers curled against the wood, and Nicholas could tell by the set of his shoulders and the glaze of his eye he was drunk. “What’s this about, Harry?” he asked, approaching slowly. “Shouldn’t you be at your brother’s?”

Blackwood made a vicious noise, which startled Nicholas fervently; he gently took the bottle from his hand and pressed a glass of water in its place, which Blackwood drained instantly. “Come up to bed, Harry,” he murmured, and Blackwood started sharply. “I’ve had Carlyle make you one up in my room.”

“Quite,” he replied, absently, and allowed himself to be led up the stairs like a child. They met no one on their way up the stairs, and Nicholas silently thanked Carlyle for his discretion; once inside the room he didn’t trust himself enough to undress his friend, and instead removed his shoes and his waistcoat until his shirt remained, arranging him comfortably on the pile of pillows and blankets Carlyle had constructed. With Thomas now in his lodging in St James’, the guest room was unoccupied, but with Blackwood in this state Nicholas preferred to keep him close at hand, however improper it may have seemed. He followed Blackwood to bed, Baedeker abandoned on the side-table, but found it quite impossible to sleep, choosing instead to spend hours staring at the gently-snoring figure of his friend sprawled across the mattress on the floor.

 

 

Blackwood didn’t emerge from Nicholas’ room until late the following morning, closer to lunch than breakfast, and leant quietly against the door of the drawing-room where Nicholas sat studying the evening paper from the night before. “Good morning,” Nicholas said, quietly, and Blackwood, marginally dishevelled, took a seat nearby. “I missed out on reading this last night – Emily hoarded it for the editorials. She’s gone to see Thomas, and Father’s with friends from Parliament til late afternoon.” Blackwood remained silent. “I can have Carlyle make up the spare bedroom, if you’d like.”

He let out a long breath. “Yes.” He glanced across the room. “It’s unlike you not to have questions.”

“Believe me, Harry, I’m bristling with them, but I thought you might prefer something to eat before I _assailed_ you. If the drink’s not affected your appetite too adversely.”

“Please.” Nicholas called for Carlyle, asking him quietly to prepare the bedroom and bring them a light lunch; the drawing-room was the most pleasant room to eat in during summer, as its huge windows often caught a wayward breeze, and the fact it backed onto the garden and not the street outside allowed them more privacy. They sat in silence, with Nicholas content to read the newspaper, and Blackwood occupied with staring blankly at the space between his feet; presently, Carlyle brought the lunch, setting it on the low table between their chairs.

Blackwood began, eventually, playing idly with his fingers. “It was dull as Hell last night, Nick, I wish you could have been there. I might not have made such a fool of myself if you had.” He glanced quickly to the door. “Might we go outside?”

“Of course.” They took the circuitous path around the outskirts, which trailed from the fountain, round the lawn in a loop and finished in a hidden bench stuffed behind the rhododendrons.

“I learnt the reason for my father’s change of heart.” Nicholas stared, feeling his stomach bubble with dread. “It’s a matter of my parentage.” Recognising the perplexity in Nicholas’ face, he sighed. “Of which they are not.”

“You were _adopted_?”

“He wasn’t so kind to indulge to me the whys and wherefores, but I can guess that it wasn’t through the conventional system, or it would have been impossible to keep scandal at bay for so long.”

They entered the clump of rhododendron bushes, completely obscured from view of the house, and he settled onto the bench with his arms resting across his thighs. Nicholas elected to stand, leaning back against the cool brick wall marking the bottom of the garden. “He gave you no clue as to who your parents are?” Blackwood shook his head. “What are you going to do?”

“As much as revealing my father for the vile and specious man that he is would give me unutterable amounts of pleasure, I can’t live with the shame that would cause my mother – who I suspect not to be entirely innocent, but was probably forced silent by my father – or my brother, who was as ignorant as I in the matter. Living the lie of Lord Blackwood’s son will have to do. For the meantime...” He stared absently at his hands. “I can’t go back there. Not for a little while, at least.”

“You’re more than welcome here,” Nicholas said, hurriedly. “God knows my father will be ecstatic to have you under his roof. Emily will forever be asking questions, but I’ve had twenty-two long years of experience denying her exactly what she wants. And if you decide you need to get out of the city, my aunt has a house in Devon we can use.”

Blackwood stared at him for a long while, before he stood to shake his hand. “Thank you. It’s reassuring to know that at least one friend wasn’t merely that because of my peerage.”

Nicholas smiled, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s my father’s role; it was never mine.”

Blackwood took a step towards him, and Nicholas found himself immobile against the wall, staring up into Blackwood’s face, which was, as ever, indecipherable. He leant down, and just as Nicholas pulled in a breath to speak, moved in and kissed him viciously. Out of pure shock, they stayed, neither moving, for several clumsy moments – Nicholas’ brain worked frantically to catch up, until he decided to relax, and fanned his hand out against Blackwood’s chest, to which Blackwood pushed him rather harshly against the wall, a hand pressed against his waist. He was alarmed to find it spread what he could only describe as _fire_ throughout him; Nicholas took in fitful breaths through his nose until Blackwood’s grip softened and, just as Nicholas had found something to say, Blackwood pulled away. “The house,” he muttered, a little breathless, “we should – ”

“Please stay,” Nicholas interrupted hurriedly, his voice faltering only a little. “Here, with us. Just for a little while.”

Blackwood looked at him, expression incomprehensible. “Of course.”

 

 

“I know it’s greatly against your nature, Emily, but I must insist you don’t ask questions.” Their carriage was picking its way through Westminster, on the way to dinner with Thomas; as much as Nicholas detested having to leave Blackwood alone in the house, tonight of all nights, propriety demanded he didn’t turn down Thomas’ invitation. “Or if you must, direct them at me, seeing as I’m far more experienced in ignoring you. You mustn’t bother Harry.”

“Of course not,” Emily said, drily, scowling out of the window. “One mustn’t bother Harry.”

In truth, he longed for her advice; he relied on her for so very much, and felt completely lost without her telling him what to do. But in this, not even Thomas could help him. He had no idea whether Blackwood could be trusted not to ruin him – in more ways than one – and he trusted his own ability to judge character even less. “You know that if I could tell you, I would.”

“Of course I do, but sometimes I fear you do these things just to be difficult.” They drew up outside Thomas’ house and Emily transformed into the stunning fiancée, and Nicholas the idyllic best man; Thomas helped her down from the carriage with a kiss on each cheek, and shook Nicholas’ hand warmly before ushering them inside. With Thomas’ departure at the end of the week, Emily was keen for them to spend as much time as possible together, and Nicholas, sorry to see his friend go, would have been glad for the occasion if it were not for Blackwood preying on his mind. Thomas entertained them both with scandalous stories from the Cyclades that Nicholas was sure they’d heard before, but laughed at nonetheless; he knew Thomas would notice his distraction, and silently hoped his friend would have the discretion not to question him over it.

“I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here,” Thomas said, gesturing for a second bottle of wine to be brought from the cellar.

“It’s a rare occasion when he’s not at work or hobnobbing with various aristocrats, I’m afraid,” Emily easily replied with a smile. “Ours was somewhat of a disadvantaged childhood in that respect, but he was merely trying to do best by us.” Barely repressing a snort, Nicholas took another sharp gulp of wine.

Thomas frowned. “Nicholas, you’re out of sorts this evening.”

Nicholas shot his friend an uneasy smile, hoping to dissuade him before he was questioned further. “A spot of hay fever, perhaps; there’s been a lot of muck rising from the river lately, and it plays havoc with my chest.”

Thomas looked at him knowingly, a single eyebrow raised. “And it’s got nothing to do with the mysterious guest you’re hoarding.”

“Thomas!” Emily scolded, having the decency to blush furiously. She turned to Nicholas quickly. “Honestly, Nick, I’ve told him nothing else, not so much as a name – ”

Nicholas stood, draining his glass. “It wasn’t your place to tell him anything at all,” he muttered, and gestured to the man skulking by the door to bring his effects.

“Nicholas, there’s no need for that,” Thomas said, rising from his chair. “Please sit down. Your sister’s been most resistant to all of my questions; she’s barely divulged anything, and only then through tangent.”

He snatched his coat from the servant’s arm and pushed on his hat. “My sister should learn to keep her head out of politics; it doesn’t suit her in the slightest.”

“At least let me call you a carriage,” Thomas protested, recognising irrefutability in the steadfast set of Nicholas’ shoulders, but he was already halfway to the door.

“Appreciated, but I could do with the walk.”

He was at the foot of the steps within moments, and to the end of the street in less than a minute; he thought about pausing to look for a sign of his sister between twitching curtains, but decided against it, turning instead with a sharp left. Truth be told, neither of them had deserved his anger, or his impertinent behaviour, and he knew it; he was well aware his frustrations lay elsewhere, and it was thoroughly unfair of him to punish his friend for them, but it had still stung to see the little confidence he had placed in his sister betrayed so readily.

He chose a circuitous route home, pausing for a while in St James’ park to stare absently into the lake, Buckingham Palace still resplendent in the dwindling, abstract light. The coolness and stillness of the water against his fingertips made him think of a time, months ago, when he had thrown pebbles into a fountain, and he bit back a sigh. Their trip to Vienna was impossible, since it required Lord Blackwood’s funding, and even if he was still willing to give it, Nicholas doubted Blackwood would accept it; he uneasily wondered whether his agreement to it in the first place had been a pre-emptive move against the betrayal he intended towards his son, and he found himself thinking, peerage or no, it wasn’t beneath him.

In any rate, this afternoon, in his own damn garden, Blackwood had –

He stared, eyes unfocused, at the water. Something huge and horrific was amounting; he could feel it as a prickle under his skin, an unfathomable, queasy lump in his gut which refused to dissipate. Raw terror slid uneasily beneath the ribcage; lusting for something so terribly and yet so afraid of what it would mean –

He caught sight of his reflection in the water, and for a moment the potential for corruption he saw there stole his breath away.

He passed a hand over his face. Even at this hour, he could pick up a hansom from beside the Palace, and be home within the hour; at length, Nicholas rose from the lakeside and picked his way across the murky park.

 

 

Some years ago, Nicholas had made an arrangement with Carlyle that, if he hadn’t risen by the eleventh hour, he should be woken without fail; on coming to wake him, Carlyle seemed puzzled to find Nicholas, fully conscious, sat listlessly at his writing-desk. Nicholas explained his behaviour loosely with a headache, and even if Carlyle found it unconvincing, his sheer professionalism meant he took the statement without comment, laying his breakfast on a nearby stool. Nicholas casually inquired as to who was in the house, and was surprised to learn he was alone; although he could easily guess the whereabouts of his family, the fact that Blackwood had left without warning startled him a little.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Only back to the house, sir, to pick up a few effects, or so I understand. He planned to be back late afternoon at the outmost.”

Nicholas sat, contemplative, his eyes affixed distantly on the window, and eventually Carlyle left him to brood. Truth be told, he was unsure whether he preferred to hear that Blackwood would be returning or not; a hasty departure overnight would surely have dampened the pointless hope stewing in him – though what the hope was for exactly still escaped him – and yet he’d felt such a surge of relief to learn his friend hadn’t abandoned him after all. He allowed himself a lengthy sigh, and stood, glancing around the room for his effects. Thomas was due to sail the following day, and it would be unfair more than impertinent not to pay a visit before his departure, especially when he needed to apologise for his behaviour the previous night; with no reason to hang about the house, he dressed himself, explained his whereabouts to Carlyle in the hall, and stepped down onto the street.

Victoria Square was alight with activity when Nicholas turned the corner. Thomas’ people swarmed across the road outside, to-ing and fro-ing with what Nicholas recognised as the drawing-room armoire amongst other furniture, overseen by the man himself, pestered constantly by several important-looking gentlemen who stood around and appeared to never cease speaking. Nicholas was relieved not to see his sister about, and stepped neatly across the square; Thomas pushed his advisors aside mid-sentence on spying his old friend, and took him, smiling heartily, back inside the house. The rooms looked empty and unoccupied, with the sparse remains of the house being hastily covered by dustsheets, but the parlour was still almost fully kitted. Nicholas refused Thomas’ insistences for both food and drink, and apologised at length for his behaviour the night before.

“It’s quite alright, Nick, I knew you were out of sorts. I’ve been your friend for most of my life, and sometimes I think I understand your own thoughts far better than you do.” He looked at him closely. “And you do forgive Emily for telling me, don’t you? I’d hate to leave you two in one of your spats.”

“Of course I forgive her; knowing as little as she does, it was amazing she resisted from speculating scandalously and spreading filthy lies all across London.”

“Unbelievably, she might even have decided to grow up.” Thomas crossed to the uncovered liquor cabinet, and poured a lick of brandy into his glass. “Forgive me if I do – I need something before going out to face the hordes again.” He cradled the glass to his chest, slouching slightly against the wall, and examined Nicholas closely. “You are being careful, aren’t you?” he said, softly, at length. “The world’s no kinder a place than when... well, when we were young.”

Nicholas drew his eyes slowly from the window to his friend. “If there’s one thing you can rely on me for, Thomas, it’s care.” He curled his fingers about themselves and wished for something to drink. “What are you having the furniture moved for? Surely you can’t plan to take it all with you.”

Thomas shook his head. “Had a man in from Debenham and Storr’s to survey the house at Emily’s instruction. The previous tenants left all their furniture for us to dispose of, which was a damn nuisance, but we made a pretty penny selling off their unwanted heirlooms.” Nicholas drily thought it was very like the both of them to turn such an occasion into a financial opportunity, but, then again, perhaps that was the reason Thomas had a position in government and he found himself unwanted and unemployed.

A baffled and battered boy whom Thomas later revealed to be the old cook’s apprentice stuck his head around the door and asked them, begging your pardon, whether Mr Hamilton would come out the front to help solve a dispute over a coffee table, and Nicholas left him to it. Thomas’ return had caused somewhat of a maelstrom of excitement within his ascetic family, and it felt odd to bid him farewell; without him Nicholas’ life would inevitably returning to the mundane, though Blackwood’s presence promised to dispel a little of the boredom. Still, Thomas had promised to be back before the year was out, seeing as he had to find the time to properly court his sister.

On arriving home, Carlyle curtly informed him that Blackwood was waiting for him in Lord Coward’s study; Nicholas dithered at the bottom of the stairs, torn between making a run for it and facing his demons. He had not spoken to his friend since yesterday in the garden, and had received nothing back in return; a better man would cross the hall and at least resolve the impasse with his friend, but Nicholas was not a better man, and he took a grasp on the cool banister and ascended to his bedroom.

 

 

Nicholas took the time to sit with his sister once the morning came. She was often silly and impetuous, but it was obvious to a blind man that she cared deeply for Thomas, and although Emily was nothing if not obstinate, to face such a long separation would be a depressing challenge even for the most obstinate of people. She certainly appreciated Nicholas’ company, wrapped in her quilt and not yet dressed despite the blazing light spread-eagled in irregular patterns across the carpet.

“Thomas was joking about the womanly things I should get up to in his absence,” she said drily, leafing absently through the paper with one hand. “He says I should campaign for women’s rights just for something to do. I think I quite surprised him by being rather taken with the idea.”

“Ironic that you have the head for politics and I don’t,” Nicholas muttered darkly. “It’s only a matter of time before Father asks Harry for some favour or other to get either me or himself a seat.”

“Well, Jennifer’s joined the WLA,” Emily continued absently.

“The what?”

“The Women’s Liberal Association. The London one. They’re quite famous. Honestly, Nick, it’s like you don’t even read.”

Nicholas wanted to make a comment about having more important things on his mind, but the amount of questions this would prompt in his sister and the self-inflicted brooding that would occur really weren’t worth trumping the argument. “What time is Thomas’ train?”

“Half two. He’s decided to get a ship from the south coast, but I wish he were going cross-country. The idea of him at sea makes me nervous.”

“He’s hardly going to become a pirate.” She glanced up from her paper, and they shared a smile at the thought of their friend haughtily strutting around in voluminous shirts and demanding doubloons at swordpoint. “You are... happy, aren’t you, Emily?”

She looked up at him. “What nonsense are you blathering now?”

He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I never imagined you married – not in any sensible manner, in any rate. You’re not just doing this because of something silly?”

“You mean something along the lines of pleasing you, or, God forbid, Father? Or because it is what is acceptable? Nicholas, your accusations of subservience wound me.” She smiled a little. “I must admit at first the idea of doing something so morally acceptable disgusted me, but saying that the women of this family have a disreputable history is somewhat of an understatement, and Thomas is a gentleman and the best I’m ever going to get. Yes, Nicholas, I am marrying him because it is, unfortunately, seen as ‘proper’; but he does make me happy.”

“You wanted me to marry once,” he said, quietly.

She looked at him closely. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it would have made your life any easier if you had.”

“It would be certainly more... normal.”

“Boring,” she disagreed amiably, and he smiled. “I don’t think you could ever lead a boring life.” Nicholas didn’t argue; for once, he decided, the two of them agreed.

 

 

The front door slammed on Nicholas’ sister at around quarter to two, and from his bedroom window he watched her sashaying down the street like a force of nature. He recognised the Hamilton family carriage perched on the kerb just as she disappeared inside, and with a smile at the scandal of the fiancées travelling unaccompanied he turned away. For a moment, he stared at the patterned carpet sprawled across the floor, and it dawned upon him he was completely alone with Blackwood. He came out onto the landing, and listened for signs of life; none from upstairs, but the gentle sound of pacing in his father’s study below told him in an instant what he wanted to know. He crept down the stairs and stood at their foot, equidistant from the front door and that of the study, the recurring nightmare from the day before. Knowing that heading out of the house or back to his room led to no resolve, he crossed the foyer and quietly opened the door.

Blackwood was slumped against Lord Coward’s desk, staring inattentively at the strip of floor between the curves of his feet; on raising his head, Nicholas observed the starch pallor of his face, the rings reminiscent of bruises which spanned below his eyes. “You look unwell.” Blackwood didn’t reply; he kept his eyes on Nicholas, and failed to suppress a shudder. Against all of his better judgement, Nicholas crossed the room and stood nervously in front of him, though he stopped short of placing his hand on his shoulder as he longed to. “Maybe you should – ”

Blackwood’s hand clamped across his mouth, and Nicholas jerked back in fear, wrenching it away as swiftly as it had been placed. Blackwood straightened, and Nicholas hurriedly backed away, suddenly finding himself afraid; fighting fiercely the panic in his chest, he stood his ground and carefully eyed his friend, slowly approaching. He stopped only when Nicholas was well within arm’s reach, and almost reluctantly placed a hot hand on either side of his waist before Nicholas threw himself onto him and kissed him. Blackwood responded in force until something seemed to prevent him and he shoved Nicholas away, taking a few steps back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nick – ” Somewhat helplessly, he shook his head. “What you’re asking of me – not only is it illegal, it is – _immoral_.”

Hardly able to believe that _this_ was the source of Blackwood’s trepidation, Nicholas couldn’t help but snort. He stared at him in overwhelming frustration; he was as confused and frightened – if not more – but had cast aside his crises when he had chosen to enter the office – and in doing so he, against all of his better judgement, he had given Blackwood his trust. Completely, and irrevocably.

“I don’t – ” He blindly shook his head. “ – _understand_ – when you talk it’s full of danger and rebellion, and here we are, and all I’m asking of you is – ” He stopped, stared at him mindlessly, choking on the panic engulfing him.

“It is a _sin_ ,” Blackwood said, eventually, and Nicholas felt a cold shudder wash slowly up his spine. The notion had far from escaped Nicholas’ own conscience, but he had pushed it aside, fear and scorn in equal measure – but mostly because for Blackwood he was willing to.

He was willing to do _anything_.

He had no argument to return to his friend, and the energy and will to stay with him drained instantly. But when he made to leave, Blackwood seized his arm, holding his gaze and refusing to release his grip, expression sincere, concerned. “I needed to – I meant you no offence.”

“I don’t think you could ever say anything more offensive.”

“I do want – ” Blackwood stepped towards him again, a hand placed across his shoulder. The clock on the mantle showed the time to be ten-past two. Nicholas’ eyes slid shut as Blackwood reluctantly, carefully, leant down and kissed him again, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his palms tingling. “ _I want_ – ”

Nicholas wondered where his sister would be, now.

He stepped hesitantly towards the door, and with one hand on the handle held the other back towards Blackwood in invitation.

Knowing Thomas, Nicholas decided, they’d be at the station, ridiculously early for the train. She’d stay to wave him off, because that was proper, and probably even have a white handkerchief to do it with, too.

Blackwood walked across the room, and for the briefest moment, took his hand.

 

 

The door of his room slammed shut. Nicholas did not move from the bed.

He thought of his sister; he wondered if she’d returned from the train station. Perhaps she decided to elope, or was tragically killed on her way home. Wayward carriage, loose rail track. Perhaps she never even made it to the station.

 

 

He only came across his friend again hours later, the lazy afternoon drifting into quiet evening.

When he entered the guest room, Blackwood’s few possessions were already boxed. The sight brought terror to him; he had delayed from finding him for fear of what he would see, and the unmistakeable sight left him frozen. He could argue, plead with him; but he knew from Blackwood’s inability to as much as look at him it would do no good. Blackwood himself was leaning against the window frame, peering into the street for the hansom doubtless already called for. “I’ve decided to leave.”

Nicholas toyed with the flap of a bag. “Back to your parents?”

“No.”

“Then where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” He marched from the window, pointlessly rearranging the bedsheets, determined to occupy his hands.

Nicholas wet his lips. Outside, the unmistakeable sound of the carriage pulling up echoed through the window; Carlyle opening the front door. “Will you write?”

Blackwood scanned the boxes, tucked one beneath his arm and left the room. He paused in the hallway beyond. “I expect not,” he replied, descended the stairs until he was no longer in Nicholas’ sight, and did not look back.

 

 

He made no excuses to his sister; he had none to make, and besides, she took one look at him and understood him perfectly. “What a right pair we make,” she muttered, smiling, and drew a hand across his forehead. “Did he say where he was going?” He shook his head. “You probably frightened him, Nick,” she said, softly. “If it were me, I’d be terrified.” His sister _knew_ ; but of course she did. He hadn’t been able to keep a secret from her since he was thirteen.

The scandal to follow cost Lord Blackwood dearly, though only in the short-term. The gossip over his family’s shifted inheritance was nothing compared to his eldest’s sudden disappearance; it was the cause of newspaper speculation for weeks on end. When even the most tenacious minds of London’s press couldn’t locate him, Nicholas briefly flirted with the idea of a private investigator, but Emily quietly pointed out that Lord Blackwood would presumably have them all long under his employment.

Besides, he thoroughly believed Blackwood didn’t want to be found.

 

 

Lord Coward worked himself into a frenzy. He spent the months currying favour with new MPs, his only tenuous links to Parliament broken or far abroad; his children saw even less of him than usual, which was, in itself, remarkable. Emily had once drily remarked she thought it impossible that there were as many hours in the day as their father chose to work at the Commons.

Whether it was hubris, fate or just sod’s law, politics finally had its toll on Lord Coward, and when Nicholas returned home on the 23rd September he found the priest had been called for and the surgeon was long gone.

His sister met him, impassive, in the hallway, and led him into their father’s study. “Apoplexy, the surgeon called it,” she muttered, crossing over to the liquor cabinet. “Becoming more common, apparently; Flaubert died of it only last year, you know.” The statement tore a terrified hole in his gut, and he stared uncomprehending out of the window as Emily took a long, unladylike swig from the brandy bottle.

“Will he live?”

Emily shook her head, and Nicholas took his own in his hands. He was the new Lord Coward by the time the week was out.

 

 

He took to his room, and left Emily to sort out the proceedings. She wrote to Thomas immediately, and, having caught him docked at Cartagena, had him back in London by the end of the following week; she gathered friends and family, arranged the funeral all in her brother’s name.

Neither of them mentioned Blackwood, save for once; she entered his room before bed, a piece of paper in her hand. “I had Carlyle ask around, and I’ve fished up the addresses of some of his friends. I don’t know if they’d happen to know more than you, but I thought it could be a start. If you wanted to tell him, that is.”

He stared at the list. The names were unfamiliar, save for one; Alex Duvall. The months suddenly felt like years.

Nicholas picked up his pen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains discussion of canon character death.

_June 1883_

Lord Henry Blackwood was back in London.

Nicholas was not; as his friend stepped home from foreign shores, Nicholas was gliding through Europe on the back of the fledgling _Orient_. He, too, was homeward bound, but only an hour or so outside of Strasbourg; he had some way to go, yet.

The news caught him in Paris.

He had intended to spend a night with friends (or, rather, friends of Duvall), but his mindless, giddy excitement spun him straight on a train to the coast, and it wasn’t until he was having the thrill punched out of him by the thick channel wind that dread unfurled inside him.

Why hadn’t Blackwood come for him?

As the journey lengthened, as the Normandy countryside slipped through night into dawn, as French beaches became soft sea and then English cliffs, Nicholas grew fearful. In the countless times he had imagined his friend’s return, he had always been Blackwood’s first point of call; not London, not politics, but Nicholas.

Nightfall found him in London. It was his own carriage which collected him from the coast – Lord Coward could afford the expense. Westminster welcomed him with its cold grey arms, and he acutely felt his relief to be _home_ again. He didn’t know the name of the man who had let him in – Emily’s handiwork, he supposed – and he suddenly, irrationally longed for Carlyle, for some semblance of normality in the hugely empty house.

“There was a man here for you yesterday, sir,” the stranger was saying. “Called himself a friend.” He had left Duvall behind in Vienna, which left only one other, and in his uncertainty and exhaustion Nicholas found himself utterly relieved to have missed him.

He retired immediately; but had no one to make excuses to. He tried to sit up in his room, in his sister’s, in his father’s, but couldn’t, and took refuge in the guest room, curled at the window from lack of want to sleep.

The man had wanted to be thought dead; something terrible must have happened to bring him back. Nicholas had not heard of such a thing, but Nicholas had not done much _hearing_ for a long while. The week prior to his departure had seen the death of Lord Blackwood and the marriage and subsequent emigration of his sister; he saw little else worth keeping a keen eye on in the papers. And once they got abroad – well, with Duvall, there had never been much talk of England, let alone politics. They had never had much grounds to talk of anything at all, really.

 

 

He slept until the morning was long since past; he was only woken when the nameless servant announced _Lord Blackwood awaited him in the study_ , and the voice in which it was said matched the content for pomp. He had dragged himself out of bed and halfway across the room before _it hit him_ , and he had to steady himself against the sudden weight on his chest. This was _Henry Blackwood_ , the same Henry Blackwood whom he had spent half a year scouring England for, whom he had regained as if from the dead merely days ago, whom he had thought, once, he couldn’t live without.

He stayed silent as he stepped inside; he merely walked across the room and sat. It surprised him how uncomfortable Blackwood seemed, but then again, the last time they had been in this study together – well. Nicholas had to choke down a hysterical giggle at the thought of it. He couldn’t even ask if the man wanted to take a stroll in the garden to break the tension. He opened his mouth; tried to speak; choked on the surge of panic that came from nowhere. “I thought you were dead,” he blurted, almost biting his own tongue.

“Quite,” was the lame reply. Blackwood let his hands fall into his pockets and attempted to appear nonchalant as he looked out into the murky London skyline. “I’m sorry I didn’t write; there was a war on.”

“Was there?” Nicholas replied, blandly.

“Yes. In Egypt.”

“A nondescript regiment and a pseudonym, no doubt. Did your father ever find you?” Blackwood shook his head. “And you return to reap the rewards of his estate?” His voice was mild, but moralities expressed in a garden a long time ago heaped implications on the sentence which Blackwood could not avoid. He wondered whether he would remember or not, but nothing showed on his old friend’s face, carefully pointed away across the garden.

He could tell Blackwood found it hard to so much as look at him; he could not stand the notion that he still wanted something so base, so incomprehensible, so uncontrollable from him. It terrified him, in a way that something like fighting the war hadn’t. Blackwood told him nothing of this; but Nicholas had known him inside and out, once.

He knew it all without Blackwood having to breathe a word.

“Do you intend to stay?”

Blackwood nodded, and braced himself to face him, his diffidence far too careful. “I am to be a Member of Parliament. I wondered whether you would care to join me.”

“You can do that?” The childishness of his question annoyed himself as soon as he asked it, especially because of the smug smile it brought on Blackwood’s face.

“I have friends of friends who can.”

“You _have_ been busy.”

“I had hoped – we might work together.”

Nicholas stared. “Work together,” he echoed, eventually, “as politicians? Working for a government I – _we_ – despised and denounced on countless occasions? Ah, but I forget – “ He smiled viciously. “You killed for that government, didn’t you?” He sneered. “Thank you, but I respectfully decline. Never had the head for politics, anyhow.”

Blackwood carefully resumed staring out of the window. “I thought you should have the choice, at least.”

“How _kind_.” Blackwood shrugged off his sarcasm with nonchalance. “So what is to become of me, then?”

“Whatever you like. I have no other use for you.”

The idea stunned him. “You want nothing more to do with me?”

“You have my word.” Nicholas stared at his feet, lost for words, no longer certain even of what he wanted from him. “Right. I’d – ah – best be – “ Blackwood gestured vaguely in the direction of the doorway, and turned from him. He knew then that he desperately, desperately did not want him to go – but had nothing to say to stop him. There was nothing for him here now.

He locked himself in the study – in his father’s study – and stared at the floor. There were Things to Be Done; staff to be hired; finances to be purveyed; acquaintances to inform of his return; but Nicholas instead stared at the floor, and did not move.

 

 

He slept a little that night, and decided, when he woke, that Things Would Change. This was a chance for him to make another stab at being his own man; there was no one left to berate him, no one left whom he felt he was betraying.

He took the trouble to discover that the name of the man whom his sister had left was Kemp, and entrusted to him to find the necessary servants for a man of his class, before washing, dressing smartly in what he considered to be dangerously fashionable, and making a jaunty visit to Chancery Lane to meet with the family solicitor, George Floss, whom Emily had seen fit to put in charge of their finance. Nicholas had not met him before, but was rather taken by the quiet, somehow sad man, and not only because he revealed Lord Coward was not in such dire straits as he had anticipated he would be. Emily had, apparently, discreetly swept his inheritance from under his feet and put it aside, a fact for which he was eternally grateful, though at the time he probably would have disowned her in sheer fury.

With Duvall in Vienna, he had not a single ally within the whole of London. He was well aware that London’s upper classes would be observing him acutely because of his return, especially coupled with that of his long-time friend, a man whom he had once been called “particularly close” to by some of the less erudite papers. He needed to make a good name for himself once more; go down to the Strand; hang around some of the back-alley gentlemen’s clubs; get himself known. He could not face as much that night, at least; he had the carriage drop him off by St James’, and lay himself along the grass, unperturbed by anything except the blue sky, watching it fade through blood-red and pewter to blue-ink black.

It was as he took the familiar route across to the palace that he learnt of the reason behind Blackwood’s return. A cheery newspaper-boy had set up shop beside the Mall, ignoring the ever-more threatening glances of nearby police; Nicholas had avoided the news thus far, but if he intended to find the highlights of London’s raunchiest social scene, he couldn’t afford to do so any longer, and he begrudgingly bought a copy to skim on his journey home.

John Blackwood’s funeral was Tuesday next, and his death left a certain Henry Blackwood as sole proprietor and heir.

He had returned not for Nicholas, not for politics, not for family, but for power, and nothing more.

 

 

An entire fortnight lolled past, in which Nicholas did absolutely nothing. He lay in bed until the middle of the afternoon, spoke to no one, read into the small hours and then fell into bed again; the relaxation would have been welcome if he hadn’t just spent a year abroad doing much of the same. He was bored out of his skull, but his only alternative was to get out of bed at a sensible hour and dance the merry dance of high society, and the idea of flattering a prominent politician in the chance of getting his daughter’s skirts above her knees made him feel ill.

He did not attend John’s funeral. As much as the thought of Blackwood having to make do alone pained him, his presence seemed inappropriate somehow, and he knew he would feel nothing short of uncomfortable at the least. Besides, the Lord Blackwood circulating in the media nowadays was not the Henry he had known; the man seemed to bathe in self-confidence, assured in his every word, plucked and raped of their meaning and twisted to suit a politician’s mouth. Nicholas sat and watched as his friend rose to fame, but felt little more than a distant acknowledgement; though he supposed he had his old friend to thank for the lack of his own name in the papers.

His summer came and went with no event. He left the house little, and heard no word from anyone. He tried writing to both Thomas and Emily; neither replied. He hadn’t expected they would – the words traded on their parting had implied as much, and he knew exactly where their loyalties lay. They had a son, he was told; he was an uncle, though the chances of him meeting his nephew were slim at best. The one exception to his loneliness was a singular telegram from Duvall to inform him that his stay had been “ _somewhat elongated_ ”. As his friend had been due back in July, and August was currently tumbling into September, this did not surprise him in the least. Besides, he mostly hoped Duvall would choose to stay there forever; he had no desire to see him again.

 

 

It was late September before Blackwood showed again. He arrived unannounced on his doorstep; Nicholas had not left his room for days, but he was up on his feet like a shot at the sound of the knock, hanging over the banister to peer into the corridor. When he heard nothing from Kemp, he presumed their visitor had been no one but a nuisance – or perhaps the post, with a larger-sized package than the delivery boy deigned possible to cram through the slit in their door. With nothing else to do, curiosity got the better of him, and he made the slow descent to the hall to investigate –

– to which he found Blackwood, standing sure as anything in his parlour, staring at him with, as ever, the most infuriatingly impenetrable expression. Nicholas had neither shaved nor washed for a good few days; he was the worse for wear from lack of sleep and appetite; he wore nothing but ill-fitting trousers and a hugely oversized shirt; all in all, he must have been an absolute spectacle to a friend who was used to seeing him so _smart_ , but he was so incredibly furious none of it bothered him in the slightest as he charged into the room.

“I told them not to let you in.”

Blackwood shrugged. “Kemp’s my man. He’ll do as I ask.”

“You sent him here – to _spy_ on me?”

“You were unstable; I considered you to be unsafe.” As if it were the explanation for everything in the world, the justification for every action he ever performed.

“Unstable,” Nicholas echoed, incredulous.

“I’d never seen you so out of sorts. It concerned me.”

Nicholas snorted. “Of course not; the _last_ time, you were long since gone.”

Blackwood had nothing to say to this, a fact of which Nicholas was utterly glad; if the man had tried to justify his actions, he wouldn’t have been held accountable for punching him securely in the face. Instead; “why did you leave England?”

“A friend asked me to go with him.”

“Duvall?” Nicholas said nothing; as good as a confession, but he was past caring. “And why did you come back?” His voice was softer; but the question made Nicholas burn.

“He – “ Nicholas paused; glanced around the room; but he was past having anything to lose. “He slept with another man.”

 _There – at last – something_ ; unmistakeable jealousy ripped across Blackwood’s face as he realised what Duvall had been to him. Nicholas felt a sordid smile wrap around his face and it would not let him go, not even as Blackwood shoved past him to rush out of the door and away – and Nicholas even had to choke on laughter at the liberty of it, the freedom of having _said_ it, but most of all knowing that somewhere deep inside Blackwood had never quite stopped wanting him.

“Did you think I’d _wait_?” he called into the corridor, heard Blackwood’s step freeze halfway. “Sit here twiddling my thumbs whilst you had your crisis of conscience, no matter how long it would take?” He walked to the corridor; could feel it was a saunter, knew his smile was spiteful at best. Blackwood seemed frozen, half-turned from the doorway to stare at him, and it filled Nicholas with vicious glee to see how the façade had slipped; he looked so beautifully vulnerable. “I waited,” he hissed, “ _a whole damned year for you_. I lost my father, and my sister, and Christ, even my own best friend was sick of the sight of me – of what _you_ had made me become – and when your father died, and there was no sign of you, I knew you must be dead; what kind of man wouldn’t go to _his own father’s damn funeral_?”

“I didn’t know – they didn’t tell me – _he wasn’t my father_ – “

“ – and if you _did_ return,” he continued, stalking even closer, “what would I be to you? Another servant? Another member of the Blackwood family entourage? Christ, I wouldn’t have been able to breathe in the same room as you. I am not some _thing_ ,” he snarled, “to be kept, out of harm’s way, told what to do. Once upon a time, you would have understood that, I know; but now you are _Lord Blackwood_ , and the world and its mistress are mere servants to you.” Lord Blackwood would always be fond of bold exits; but he today he turned away, let the door close quietly behind him. Nicholas’ knees had long since turned to jelly, but he did not let them drop him now. The house’s huge silence seemed to suffocate, far away on every side. He became aware of Kemp, skulking around the bottom of the stairs; Nicholas rounded on him. “I suppose that if I told you to go, you’d not listen to a word I say?” Kemp remained impassive. “Make yourself useful, then, and sack the staff. And get a man down to Floss’; I want the house sold by Saturday.”

Kemp, ever the professional, didn’t flinch. “We’re moving, sir?”

“Not far.” He paused to pass a hand across his face. “Near St James’ Park, I think,” he said softly; “but something small.” The house had never been _his_ ; he had grown up on the other side of London, across the river and deep in the richer suburbs. They had moved from there when his mother had gone, and so Emily remembered nothing but Westminster; the house was his sister’s keepsake, but she had abandoned it readily a long while now.

 

 

He was in Victoria Street before the week was out.

Small, but tastefully so; _manageable_ , the word which came to mind, big enough to entertain but small enough for comfort. No one there but him, Kemp and someone to cook and clean for him. His father would have hated it; Blackwood probably would; but he felt safe again.

There was perhaps no one more surprised than Nicholas himself when his neighbour appeared from nowhere to invite him out that Saturday night. The man in question was the son of a self-made American millionaire, bored out of his pretty head, made to lounge around his “apartments” when his father saw fit to abandon him. He reminded Nicholas of his sister so acutely he was lost for words when the boy first stuck his head around the door.

He found himself agreeing, though he had no idea why. He knew that no good could come from it; but all the same, the only alternative was hardly appealing in its misery and loneliness. He washed; he shaved; he dressed his finest, and was shoved into a carriage with no idea of where they were going, a somewhat evil smile in his neighbour’s eye.

“I’m liking the outfit,” he was teasing, drawl more pronounced than those Nicholas was used to; “so incredibly out of fashion it’s almost edging back in again.”

Nicholas almost didn’t see the point of taking a carriage, the journey was so short – but he remembered how exciting wealth had been when he had been that age, and passed no comment. He did not recognise the house (one of Lady Ranelagh’s estates, he was told), and the idea that he knew not one person inside both thrilled and terrified him.

The boy played his part; Nicholas was introduced to several dignitaries as _Lord Coward_ , and the title seemed to earn his opinion a ghastly amount of respect. He suddenly longed for Thomas or even Blackwood at his side, the ability to turn his head and snide at the blind patriotism in front of him. Still; an easy thrill overcame him as the evening wore on, back in his element, doing what he had been raised to do almost effortlessly. He had made an enviable ally in Sir Rotheram before the dinner was served, and was being slowly introduced to his entourage, none of them influential and all pitiful.

“We’ve not seen much of you around, recently, milord,” Sullivan simpered – nothing better than a backbencher, and yet the men around them were gazing at him with a ridiculous level of awe.

“I’ve been on holiday. Europe.”

“Ahh.” Several sage nods spread like a contagion throughout the semicircle. “Europe.”

“And are you planning to come back to politics?” This came from an inexorably hopeful Rotheram, peering keenly down at him over twig-like spectacles. “Your father was ever so good at it.”

The statement caught him unawares, and didn’t let him go. “I – “ He coughed, choking on his own breath, struck speechless. “Excuse me.” He couldn’t walk away from their eager stares fast enough, desperate to find some way out into the open. The situation stung, made sharp air catch in his throat, the stupidity of it all – pretending this was his world, when it had always been his _father’s_ , and he’d never felt the desire to even step into it – Christ, what was he doing here? He didn’t even know his neighbour’s name –

– and then Blackwood saw him. He wished he could say that he caught sight of Blackwood, but in truth it was the uneasy prickle on his neck that made him look about and see he was being watched; even he couldn’t tell which one of them was more horrified. His first instinct was to run, as if he had no right to stand in this ridiculous house with these ridiculous people and in such a ridiculous outfit – but then he registered the panic in Blackwood’s face, the gawking stare that had not wavered since he had set eyes on him. Nicholas felt that vindictive smile seize hold of him again; nodded politely, snatched a passing glass of wine and strode resolutely back into the mêlée.

Blackwood did not confront him once.

 

 

He threw himself back into it with a dogged determination; stayed close to Rotheram’s side until he was whispering into the golden ear, suggesting which men to shed and which to save. He had, somewhere, stumbled upon a remarkably acute sense of character; he supposed he had Blackwood to thank for that, or Duvall, perhaps, as he had never possessed the wit to leave the two of them well alone. It made him most invaluable as a companion, and Rotheram slowly became devoted to him. He was aware that others’ envy only escalated, and the pleasure of this was almost too much to bear.

Rotheram had an idle schedule, but Nicholas spent more nights out than in; he dined, drank and danced with any noble he could get within three feet of.

Blackwood was there. Blackwood was _always_ there; but he never spoke a word.

Nicholas had, though not by choice, always been a sycophant. First it had been to his father; then to Blackwood; now it was to Rotheram. Part of the allure of Thomas had been, if anything, his lack of authority; his amenability to settle back his shoulders, look him squarely in the eye and _listen_ , not assuming that what he said had no use in the slightest. It was with Duvall, however, that he had attuned the level of sycophantism he now practiced with Rotheram; it slowly but inevitably gave _him_ the true power, asserted himself into the other man’s life until he could not think without him.

Duvall had noticed; had rebelled; hence the circumstances leading to Nicholas’ departure. Rotheram believed he had nothing but a misfortunate innocent as a sort-of assistant, and to this opinion Nicholas was happy to comply.

In spite of this authority, there was one aspect of Rotheram’s life from which Nicholas found himself entirely excluded. Rarely, though with an oddly selective sort of frequency, he would be turned from his door; it would be for no more than a single night, and he would happily accept Nicholas’ company the following day. He would always have a thin slit across his thumb, and, intermittently, a livid red weal or two at the juncture of his neck. Naturally, no explanation was forthcoming, neither from the Lord’s uncanny ability to inevitably make everything into vapid conversation nor Nicholas’ polite instigation towards the matter.

Whatever he was getting up to, Rotheram didn’t trust Nicholas enough to let him in on it. And considering the type and depth of information Nicholas was more than capable of accessing, it must be something _big_.

The only explanation that came to mind was some sort of illicit club in which the Lords and Ladies went to vent a little of their _frustrations_ , which the Penny Dreadfuls had them believe were ever so prominent in the right areas of the capital; he had very great doubt that his Lord had a lover, simply because other than those rare occasions he was living in the man’s pockets. Nicholas himself had not slept with him, despite what some of the more prosaic individuals might claim; aside from the fact he was not a harlot, he had no desire to do so, not even for political gain. There were, of course, other ways of him ascertaining such information, as Kemp would often quietly remind him; but a little curiosity kept the mind alive, and besides, the last man found to have put tails on Lord Rotheram was found on his stomach in the Thames three weeks later.

He could ask Blackwood. Blackwood wouldn’t ask questions; Blackwood would know a man; Blackwood would probably know the answer himself. Nicholas knew with damning certainty that that way madness lay.

 

 

In the end, neither espionage nor even sleight of hand were necessary; Rotheram invited him.

“I don’t doubt you’re curious, Nicholas,” he crooned, his fingers stroking the finery of his not-quite-antique chaise. “I _know_ you.”

To this, Nicholas saw fit to reply with a sickening smile.

Rotheram inspected him keenly. “Just for tonight, you understand.”

“Naturally.”

 

Across the room, Alex Duvall stared at him.

Throat dry, Nicholas’ first reaction was one of panicked horror. The room was, naturally, crowded, but Nicholas in his youth stuck out like a sore thumb; and it was too late to escape, now that Duvall had seen him. At first chance, Duvall crossed the room and came next to him; the reunion was far from joyful. “When did you get back?”

Duvall waved his hand. “Days ago – but never mind that, what the hell are you doing here?”

Nicholas’ back straightened in anger. “I am with friends.”

“These are _my_ friends, Nick, _my_ people.” The occupants of the room began to file out of the heavy double doors to one side; Nicholas and Duvall did not move. “Are you a member?”

“A member of what?”

Duvall rolled his eyes. “The Order, Nick.”

“I – what? No, I just, sort of – “ He cast about for Rotheram, but they were alone in the room, the great doors just falling to. “ _Really_ , a secret Order? A great conspiracy? I suppose there’s _sorcery_ involved?”

Duvall smiled wryly. “Not my style, I know, but I want power in America – and well, this is easiest.” He inspected Nicholas closely. “You honestly didn’t know I’d be here?”

Nicholas snorted. “I didn’t even know _this_ existed until yesterday,” he replied, casting about with one hand. “I’ve hardly had time to do my research. And the knowledge would have put me out of coming, not entranced me to, I assure you.”

He watched Duvall hesitate. “I’m – “ A deep breath; a wrangled expression. “I am – sorry, Nick. About...”

“Quite,” he replied absently, eyes towards the fireplace. “What did you do once I’d gone?”

“I left, too, almost straight away – but went further East. Stayed in Budapest for a while. You would love it. I did m- “

“Don’t,” Nicholas muttered. Duvall’s mouth closed instantly.

From the great doors, Rotheram’s head emerged, peering through for him. “Nicholas,” he coaxed, “you’re missing the dinner – “

“Coming,” he replied, shortly, and followed him through the doorway.

 

 

“A most pleasurable evening,” Rotheram said in a grave tone which quite suggested otherwise. Nicholas said nothing; watched Westminster streets slip by. “The others were rather taken with you,” he continued, but of course they had been – Nicholas had had his sycophant’s face on. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Nicholas hesitated. In all honesty, not in the slightest, but during his time there he had found himself seduced by what the Order meant; the power, of course, but not because he wanted it, but quite the opposite. Imagine it – just _imagine_ it – all Blackwood’s years of plotting and planning to be undercut by _him_ , the disregarded son of Lord Coward – oh, the satisfaction of such a victory. He could think of nothing but the faces of the people who had thought so very little of him – his father, his friends, even his sister, by the end. To rise – to take them by surprise – to hold their stupid, petty little lives in the palm of his hand and then _squeeze_ –

“Yes.”

Rotheram beamed – a first in Nicholas’ books. “Oh, _excellent_ news. They had a task in mind for a man of your stature – we shall get you Initiated right away. You do of course believe in magic, Lord Coward?”

“Absolutely,” he lied, and smiled.

 

 

If he had been alarmed to find Duvall present, it was nothing compared to the terror at discovering the attendance of Lord Blackwood.

He could tell it wasn’t orchestrated quite simply because Blackwood turned tail and fled at the sight of him. Nicholas, God help him, found himself chasing Blackwood into the great entrance hall, shouting out his name until his friend stopped, looked back at him. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He took a half-step forward. “They told me there was a new man, but I thought it was just Standish.”

Nicholas’ mind flapped frantically, hysterical, incapable of saying anything – was he pleased to see him? Was he well? What had he been doing? “Nicholas.” Duvall came up behind him, one hand resting on his arm. “They’ve retired upstairs; they’re asking after you.” He looked at Blackwood, but spoke to Nicholas. “Are you staying?”

“Yes,” he replied.

Duvall steered him upstairs, one hand resting on the crux of his back; Blackwood followed a pace behind, and Nicholas’ throat was caught with the impossibility of working out what to say.

They found the others already well submerged in their own activities, and their trio stood awkwardly to one side, Nicholas’ eyes on his feet, well aware of the other two staring at him. Duvall stood closest, and Nicholas’ whole body jumped as his hand brushed up his arm, worming its way past cuffs and through creases, up along his shoulders. Fingers hooked around his jacket, threw it to the floor. Nicholas did not move, _could_ not move, was lost in the impossible task of working out what he actually wanted. Duvall was picking open the buttons on his waistcoat with steady familiarity, sliding it off to join his jacket with slightly more reverie, his hands smoothing out across the front and back of Nicholas’ chest, far too cold for Nicholas to appreciate the intimacy.

When Duvall bit into his neck in a manner Nicholas thought most unpleasant, he finally looked up in protest, but it was Blackwood who caught his eye – stood a good three feet away, whole body stiff as stone, hands balled in fists beside him, but in his _eyes_ , there was fury and loathing, yes, but the lust and jealousy and _longing_ there punched the breath from in him.

 

 

There was a letter from Blackwood waiting for him at home. He knew the man had retired to Chichester for the New Year, and had been absent for quite a few of the Order’s meetings, now; he idly wondered whether he was asking for Nicholas to catch him up with their latest proceedings, thumbing one corner of the envelope til the paper curled. He searched around for his letter-opener and ripped the top in two, scanning the painfully familiar writing as quickly as he could.

Blackwood was _summoning_ him.

Nicholas snorted, and cast it aside, careful that it landed in the pile of dry ends used to light the fire. He considered Blackwood’s motives as he took the seat behind his desk, looking across the papers Kemp placed neatly for him there – did the man _honestly_ expect him to come running? Was this some ridiculous, elaborate test – and if so, how on Earth was he to know if he passed or failed? He sneered at the idea; as if such a test would hold any importance to him. There were whispers, faint though they were, of a life for Nicholas in politics – thoughts in mind of him being _Home Secretary_ no less, not this Christmas, certainly, but maybe the next, or the one following... the allegiance of Lord Henry Blackwood was no longer of great circumstance to him.

 

 

He knew it would be a week or so before it became apparent to Blackwood he had refused to come at his call; after that, he simply lounged at home, waiting for the inexorable knock at the door. Not that he anticipated it with any pleasure, mind; he was relishing the chance to gloat from a position of political power he knew would have Blackwood squirming with jealousy.

A month passed, with nothing – no presence at his door, nor at any Order meeting. At every session, he was forced to bite his tongue for want of asking into his whereabouts, especially as it was a commonly-known rule that their lives outside of that hall were not to be discussed when within it. He stooped, once, to reading the papers for any base information he could gather, but all he found was the sycophantic propaganda all too easily attributed to the Order, now Nicholas knew of their workings. He found himself idly reading on the progress in Egypt, trying to imagine Blackwood the common soldier, arms smeared with others’ blood, always, in his mind, small and terrified in the midst of all the horror around him.

When the last week of March passed with no event, Nicholas found himself beginning to feel scared. He became trapped in his mind, reliving the guilt and terror he had suffered, not so many years ago – different, now, as he was not only less naïve but less responsible, and yet somehow just as potent, just as capable of having him lay awake for torturous hours at night.

 

 

On the second day of Lent, Blackwood attended his first Order meeting for four months.

Nicholas experienced tangible relief as he caught sight of him across the cold, smelly hall, the emotions making his body crumple, his shoulders sag, and, to his horror, hot tears push insistently at the back of his eyes. The world seemed to drone away as he realised – he had missed him, more so than he’d known, until he’d set eyes on him again. His whole scheme, his lust for power, seemed pathetic, inconsequential, the feeble scrabblings of a lesser man – it had amounted to nothing without Blackwood, whether standing coolly across an echoing room, or – and Nicholas ached at the thought – standing quietly at his side.

Duvall’s hand tightened on his arm. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he replied, feeling far away. The others were retiring upstairs, but Blackwood was turning from the hall, already halfway to the door. Nicholas bit down on the urge to scoff; Blackwood had _abandoned_ him, rejected his friendship with horrific ease, left Nicholas to turn in on himself, become some detestable creature until there was nothing of him left anymore. He gathered his cloak from the floor, and, smiling, took Duvall’s arm as they began to file upstairs.

And yet, something in his mind whispered, he placed himself before you, humble and apologetic – and who was the one to abandon whom, then?

 

 

He lasted until Sunday afternoon – unusually bright, considering the time of year – when, sat at his desk, he found himself composing a letter, single strips of paper torn apart and thrown away as he failed to work out what exactly he wanted to say.

_I wish to speak with you._

_I need to speak with you._

_I want to speak with you._

He settled, finally, on the latter, and sent Kemp away with it, refusing to believe his manservant’s insistences that he did not know where to find him. Sure enough, he had returned within the hour, Blackwood’s simple reply for Nicholas to come to him whensoever it pleased him. He wrestled with his conscience, stood in the centre of the room with the strip of paper in hand – and then had Kemp call him a carriage, nearly running out the door, hat and coat in hand.

It felt strange, walking through the Blackwood house’s foyer, the floor cold and hard against his echoing feet. He could only think of all that had happened since the last time he had been there – his father, Emily, Duvall, Blackwood; and all that time, the house had not changed. The world had not stopped for him.

Blackwood stood in the study, the room illuminated with soft, yellow light from the spring sunset. It seemed impossible that he was not waiting for him, and Nicholas entered without a knock.

“Drink?”

Nicholas nodded. “Please.” He watched as Blackwood poured it, took it with quiet thanks, and cradled it to his chest, like a shield. He was aware of Blackwood’s anticipation, pressing down on him like lead – but now that he stood here, he had no idea of what to say. “Where have you been?”

Blackwood shrugged. “Around. Speaking to people. Working. Is this what you wanted – an interrogation?”

“No,” he said quickly. _I missed you_ – but couldn’t form the words; they felt like lumps of wood in his throat.

“I’m glad you called, actually,” he continued, almost as if Nicholas hadn’t spoken. “I had hoped to include you.”

“Include me?”

“I have,” he said, with a facsimile smile, “a plan. To bring about something never before seen in all our nation’s history.” Nicholas watched as his old friend changed before him; the posture altered; the expression shifted; the man became something altogether different. A politician’s stance. “Two centuries ago, a group of men no more noble than those on the street rose up together and seized the throne in the name of _democracy_ , committing the foulest acts which surmounted to no less than blasphemy because the corruption of government had gone too far. They ruled without sovereign for near a decade; they were overthrown; but they were weak where we could be strong. They were fanatic where we could be wise.” Blackwood stared across the room; his gaze was almost hypnotic. “Since that day, the nation has never forgotten the taste of its own liberty – but it chose badly, representing itself in a Parliament that has fallen foul of greed and malice. It can be disposed of, and in its place an institution more noble, more wise and more just can be established – with us to lead it. We could _rule the world_ , Nicholas.”

Nicholas’ first thought was that the man had gone completely mad. People couldn’t just go around _ruling the world_ ; it was never as easy as that. No plan was ever foolproof; no nation ever lacked a steadfast hero willing to decapitate a tyrant. Blackwood would have a plan; but it would be flawed, it would be full of grandeur and nobility and wide, sweeping moves which would be blatantly recognisable to anyone with half a brain. He would fail.

And yet...

To gain a foothold in government. To petrify a group of stupid and yet influential men to follow them. To slowly, ever so slowly, amount power, until at last there was nowhere for the country to hide from them...

_It could be done._

Nicholas felt a chill worm up his spine. He felt an overwhelming desire for the power he could obtain, the likes of which he had not felt for months – not since Blackwood had disappeared, yet again. He thought of a door slamming shut on a June afternoon, and what freedom could mean if he ruled the world.

They would need an infallible spokesman, the likes of which never seen before; but if there were ever a man to do it...

He shook his head, breaking the reverie. He had come to – well, he wasn’t sure, but it was certainly not to involve himself in some insane plot –

He had come to be with him, a quiet voice mumbled, deep in the recesses of his mind. Because it is him, or nothing at all.

“What do you say, Nicholas?” Blackwood’s voice was soft, but somehow it made his heart ache.

“I missed you,” he spat out, wringing his hands together, eyes roving around the room. “I _always_ miss you.” He passed a hand over his eyes, shook his head. “And what would I be, in this grand scheme of yours? Another lackey? Another sycophant?”

Blackwood looked very small when Nicholas met his eye; very weak. “If you wanted. I’d much rather you were my equal.” Blackwood smiled and looked aside, and for a second the years slid off him, and Nicholas’ _friend_ stood before him once again. “I wager you think I forgot you,” he murmured, seemingly to himself. Nicholas’ heart hopped. “Spent all my time on war and politics, never a second thought...”

“They intend for me to be Home Secretary,” Nicholas blurted out, and felt the fool the second he said it, knew he was just scrabbling for anything to say. Blackwood’s smile, however, merely grew.

“I know, Nick,” he said, as if he was berating a child, and Nicholas certainly felt very small. “I told them to.” They were closer than Nicholas expected, but he couldn’t for the life of him place who moved or when – but Blackwood was near enough to touch, now, to smell, and all Nicholas could think of was all the times he’d longed for this –

When he kissed him, his body simply _sang_ – he could not think of another way to describe it. They slid free from the years that had separated them, full of loathing and betrayal and regret. He fiddled absently with his friend’s lapels, smoothing creases from where his fists had bunched them, moments before. “When you left – “ He felt his friend stiffen, and tightened his grip. “ – _no_ , Harry, we can’t avoid it.”

“I was afraid,” he replied, after a long while.

“You were a damn fool,” Nicholas replied, automatically, his brain still attempting to reconcile the concept of ineffable, indomitable Blackwood feeling base fear. He felt alive, stood in that huge room devoid of anything save for yellow sunset and the two of them, like he hadn’t for too many long years. He looked up at his friend and quietly vowed to himself, smiling, that the man should never feel fear again.

 

_March 1890_

_  
_

A quiet clock ticked above London, unbeknownst to anyone save for Nicholas and Blackwood. The week before last, Blackwood had lain unconscious on his bed without pulse or breath, the only vestige of his fear apparent in the loose way his hand had gripped Nicholas’. The drug had worked; Reardon was to be trusted.

Now, they stood under the city, in cavernous sewers that reeked of the city’s life, of sweat and damp and urine – Blackwood’s voice echoed off every wall, nonsense Latin and gibberish woven together to form a spell. The girl bucked and writhed on the plinth, mind addled and long gone with the poppy-seeds forced to her hours ago – at least she would die happy, Nicholas thought idly, shrugging his cloak about him against the damp. He knew there were some who would not be so fortunate.

The blade sliced down – Nicholas smiled – and _thus –_

_– the game’s afoot: follow your spirit, and upon this charge, cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”_

_  
_

_January 1891_

_  
_

They had put him in Blackwood’s cell. The walls were alive with his friend’s hand, crawling and shifting like insects. Nicholas stared at them and thought only of Blackwood’s face, eyes closed in concentration, mouth moving soundlessly as he committed to memory chunks of the texts Nicholas had picked out for him.

They had shown him a picture. Blackwood on his gibbet, high above old London town. Circled in vivid cerise. They had wanted to see him scream, see him squirm; he had stared them in the eyes and smiled.

It haunted him now, though, alone in this desolate place, stamped into his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. He was surrounded by him, and yet his friend had never been further away.

A baton clattered against the railings; “on your feet,” barked the guard. “Visitor.” He did not stand, even as the door was heaved open; there was no one of any consequence able to visit him now.

His mother entered the room.

“Good Christ,” she barked, appraising him coolly, “I can’t even recognise you.” He shot to his feet, staring at her in horror. “Got himself in a right mess,” she sighed to no-one in particular. “Just like his father.” Her voice had changed; it was American, now, slow and harsh, drawling. She dismissed the guard, who looked like he’d rather argue otherwise.

“What are you doing here?” he mumbled. He’d meant to sound imperious, and failed spectacularly.

She peered at him scornfully. “I’m getting you out of this trouble, you stupid boy. Your sister wrote to me when she heard about, what was his name? Blackwood – “

“Is Emily here?” he interrupted quickly, and she snorted.

“She has better things to do with her time.” _As do I_ , came the unspoken words. “There’s a man very keen not to see you hang, God help him, and I agreed to do the legwork with the courts.”

He stared at her, lost for words. Years had passed – _decades_ – and she comes here at the whim of another man. What on Earth do you say to a woman – a mother – like – _her_? “I don’t want to escape,” he muttered, embarrassed at how petulant he came across. “I killed; I deserve to hang for it.” He had lain in that wretched cell and longed for the quiet, the finite comfort that death would provide – had seen no other option. Not without Blackwood. But he was human, still; and part of his mind clutched frantically at the idea of his survival.

“And now he has a backbone, eh?” She looked ready to clout him from frustration. He took a seat on his bed again, avoiding her eye. “It’s not up to you any more. There are larger forces in motion. You must be with him, Nicholas – God knows you don’t want to be against him.”

“Who is he?” She ignored him; as she bustled out, Nicholas grabbed her arm, but she freed herself with ease. “What’s his _name_?”

A man entered. He was dressed in black. Nicholas raised his head, and the smallest of pistols bumped his forehead. _What is it to be?_

Nicholas smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Blackwood had been sick all his life; he dies of pneumonia. 
> 
> Blackwood's mother was driven insane by the family's separation. Blackwood puts her in an institution on his return to England.
> 
> Blackwood terrorizes Duvall with 'magic' until he flees the country.


End file.
